Retribution
by deb
Summary: An enemy from the past seeks revenge on the Airwolf crew. Sixth story in the “Journey into Darkness” universe.


Summary: An enemy from the past seeks revenge on the Airwolf crew. Sixth story in the "Journey into Darkness" universe.

Acknowledgments: I would like to thank Enfleurage for her input -- any errors that remain are mine.

Airwolf (unfortunately) isn't mine. Characters and settings belong to their creators. No profit to be made from this story

"Retribution"

-*-

"Iraq, Somalia, Mexico, Colombia, Afghanistan and Sri Lanka. Now Germany. If nothing else, at least we're getting a geography lesson out of this," Hawke complained, rattling off the list of foreign countries they had visited. Over the course of three months, Airwolf and her crew had chased Fennecs across much of the globe. Thanks in part to Karen Hanson's work on the radar system, there were nine down, three to go. With luck, those numbers would soon be eleven and one. "If you'd told me ten years ago that we'd be flying into East Germany at their request..." Hawke let his words trail off.

Michael's voice came back over the intercom carrying what sounded like a note of sympathy. "It's not East Germany any more. Just Germany. The world changes, Hawke. All we can do is try to keep up." There was a pause. "If it makes you feel any better, I never would have believed that I'd see the wall come down in my lifetime."

The pilot glanced toward Caitlin, seated beside him. She was studying an aeronautic chart, or at least pretending to. While she hadn't objected to the trip, he wondered how she really felt about flying into Germany again, and about the German reunification. Had it happened five years earlier, the mission into East Germany to rescue Michael wouldn't have happened -- Caitlin might never have become a part of the Airwolf crew. Chances were, she never would have gone into Cambodia with Michael, and the two of them wouldn't have ended up together.

_Playing "what if" was pointless. _That road was tangled in razor wire and had far too many twists and turns. Hawke pushed those thoughts out of his mind, returning his attention to their mission. Information had come through unofficial sources within the intelligence community, along with an unexpected request for assistance. A pair of Fennecs had been making raids on the Luftwaffe base at Laage, taking down aircraft almost at will. It was unclear who was behind the attacks, or even the reason for them. During their briefing, Zeus had speculated that perhaps not everyone was happy about the reunification, and East Germany being welcomed back into the fold. It was as good an answer as any.

To Hawke, the politics were irrelevant, except as they related to finding and dispatching their prey. He simply wanted all of the remaining Fennecs removed from the skies, especially if -- as they suspected -- one of them was being flown by Jason Locke.

Unfortunately, it didn't appear that either of the German helicopters was Locke's. Zeus, to his credit, had expended a considerable amount of the Firm's resources attempting to track the former agent. After exhaustive digging, a money trail had been found. Locke had stashed the proceeds from the Fennecs he had sold in a Swiss bank account. What records they could access suggested Locke was somewhere in South America. The Firm was still trying to narrow that down.

"Laage should be dead ahead," Michael reported, interrupting his musings.

Hawke scanned the horizon, spotting the airfield. "Got it." He twisted his neck towards the rear compartment. "You're sure we're invited?"

"So I'm told. There's only one way to find out," the agent answered.

Their radio call for landing clearance was answered with by a request that they land near the main hanger. Hawke set the helicopter gently on the tarmac, and started shutting the systems down. "Cait..."

"I know the drill. Stay here, stay alert, and if anything seems hinky, get the hell out of Dodge and we'll sort it out later." Her smile seemed unusually forced, and Hawke wondered again what reservations she might have about them being there.

He swung out of the helicopter, allowing Michael to have a moment of privacy with his wife. The agent joined Hawke as a man in a German officer's uniform approached.

"Major Meier?" Michael asked.

The man nodded, extending his hand. "Yes," he answered, in heavily accented English, "And you gentlemen are?"

"Michael will do." As he shook the proffered hand, he glanced toward Hawke. "And this is String."

Hawke shook the Major's hand as well. The officer smiled, apparently accepting that there was still a certain level of distrust, one that extended to a reluctance to share full names. "In that case, please, I am Heinrich. Come, let us go inside and discuss these abominable helicopters that are annihilating my aircraft."

The hanger seemed to be devoid of other personnel. Hawke wasn't sure if that was intentional, or if it was simply late enough that everyone had gone for the day. Meier ushered them into an office, and offered them tea. Cups in hand, they settled into seats at a long wooden table. Meier fished a photograph out of a folder and handed it to Michael. "This is what you are looking for?"

The agent passed the photo across the table to Hawke. It was grainy, presumably taken at a distance and enhanced, but it was unmistakably a Fennec. "That's one of them.'

A handful of other black and whites followed, pictures of crash sites. "The helicopters have shot down four of my planes. Three of my men are dead, the other managed to eject." Meier reached across the table and gave the photo of the Fennec a shove. "These accursed things seems to be immune to our weapons. My best pilots can't get a radar lock." He was angry, and from the color in his cheeks, more than a little embarrassed.

Hawke had been paying little attention to Meier, instead examining the pictures of the wreckage the Fennecs had left behind. Most of the planes were so badly destroyed they were unrecognizable, but one was partially intact. Hawke slammed the photograph down on the table and turned accusing eyes toward the Major. "That's a MiG."

"A MiG-29, I believe." Michael interjected, looking to the German for confirmation. Receiving it, he turned back to Hawke. "They originally belonged to the German Democratic Republic -- what you would refer to as East Germany. Most of their aircraft were either scrapped or sold, but the MiGs were too valuable. After the reunification they were absorbed into the Luftwaffe and recently stationed here in Laage."

"My men are the best MiG pilots in the world," the Major added, a note of pride creeping into his voice. "When the allies wish to practice their skills against MiG fighters, they come here."

Hawke hated to admit that it made sense. Although not particularly pleased with the situation, he nodded. "So how do we do this?"

"We fly training missions each morning. That is when our planes have been attacked. Would you be willing to provide backup for my pilots?"

_Flying support for MiGs._ Something about it just felt wrong. "Okay," he agreed, reluctantly.

Meier beamed, apparently oblivious to the pilot's discomfort. "Very good, I thank you."

The room was starting to close in on Hawke, leaving him uncomfortably warm despite the temperate air. He glanced toward Michael, who showed no indication of being distressed by the situation. _Perhaps this would be a good time to go see what was bothering Caitlin._ "Michael, can you handle the details?"

The agent shot him a questioning look, but agreed. Hawke excused himself and went outside, crossing the short distance to the waiting helicopter.

Caitlin looked over as he popped the hatch and climbed into the pilot's seat. "Done already?"

"Michael is wrapping things up."

"Oh." She went back to scanning the terrain, unusually quiet.

Hawke hesitated, trying to figure out how to find out what was on her mind. "Are you annoyed that we left you here to guard Airwolf?" He was fairly certain that wasn't the problem, but at least it gave him someplace to start.

"What? No, of course not. You're Airwolf's pilot and Michael is Firm, you're the two who need to make contact."

"Then what is bothering you?"

She looked down. "It's just... it's nothing."

_Right. _ "Cait?"

Caitlin didn't answer immediately. Finally she looked up at him, sad eyes reflecting the setting sun. "If the reunification had happened sooner... Michael would be with her."

_Her?_ "Maria?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "You were flying, String. You didn't see what her death did to him. I did."

So that's what this was about. Hawke hesitated. There were confidences that he had shared years earlier. A privileged confession heard over cigars and an expensive bottle of brandy. The story of a foolish young American agent seduced by a beautiful woman on a train. A woman who, as it turned out, was a member of the Stasi. It wasn't his story to tell, but Caitlin needed to know she had nothing to fear regarding Maria. "She wasn't who Michael thought she was, Cait. He eventually came to realize that."

"He loved her."

"At the time, he thought he did. I'm not going to lie to you. I do think it was more than a physical attraction. But I promise you, he never felt about her the way he does about you. You can take that to the bank." It had, initially, stunned Hawke. He never would have pictured the two of them together, much less guessed at the depth of Michael's emotions. At least, not until he saw how the agent looked at Caitlin, and heard the love in his voice every time he said her name. Michael would kill for Caitlin -- or die for her, if it came to that.

Whatever reply she might have made was interrupted by Michael's return. He climbed into the rear cabin, sliding in behind the engineer's controls.

Still unhappy with the surprise he had received during the briefing, Hawke shot a look of irritated annoyance over his shoulder. "You know, you might have mentioned the MiGs." The last thing he had expected was to find that he was going to be flying support for what he had always considered enemy aircraft.

"Sorry, I didn't think it mattered." Apparently it wasn't an issue for Michael.

As he brought Airwolf to life, the pilot considered that. He wasn't sure why it was important. Since first taking possession of Airwolf, he had probably flown against as many or more American built aircraft than Soviet ones. There was no logical reason for him to automatically view the MiG fighters as the enemy. "I don't like surprises," he grumbled, unable to come up with a better answer.

-*-

They spent the night in a clearing barely large enough for Hawke to land without trimming the surrounding branches. After hanging the camo netting and dining on sandwiches, they had settled in to sleep, Hawke in Airwolf while Michael joined Caitlin outside, protected from unexpected intrusion by the helicopter's motion detectors.

The rising sun woke Caitlin. Still groggy, she twisted, trying to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight. "Good morning." Michael's voice was soft in her ear, and his breath tickled the side of her neck. "How'd you sleep?"

He was spooned against her back, arm draped casually around her waist. She rolled to face him, and his lips brushed hers. _How had she ever doubted how this man felt about her? _ "Good. You?"

"Damn ground doesn't get any softer. I wonder how Hawke would feel about packing a couple air mattresses?"

The pilot picked that moment to appear, circling around Airwolf's nose. "You two decent?" he called.

"Unfortunately," Michael answered.

Caitlin laughed, reaching over to give her husband a playful swat on the arm as she sat up. "Yes, we're decent. And if somebody doesn't behave, we might be staying that way for the foreseeable future."

Hawke grinned, holding out cups of coffee. Caitlin took one and passed the other to her husband. It was instant, but better than nothing. They were too close to civilization to risk the smoke from a campfire. "What do you think the odds are of the Fennecs showing up?" she asked, blowing on the coffee to cool it.

Her husband answered. "The MiGs fly out of Laage three mornings a week. The last three weeks, the Fennecs have met them every time. I can't see why that would change."

She shook her head. "I don't get it, Michael. If the Fennecs keep attacking them, why don't the Germans change their schedule? Why go up there and get shot at?"

It was Hawke who answered. "Pride, and maybe a little stubbornness. Meier can't accept that his Wing is being bested by a couple of glorified egg-beaters. According to him, these are the top MiG pilots in the world. He's lost four planes to the Fennecs -- and he would have lost more, but his pilots have finally learned that there's no sense engaging, all they can do is turn tail and run. It's eating him up,"

"So who's behind the Fennecs?"

Michael shrugged. "Someone trying to show up the Germans. Likely another country that flies MiGs and thinks their pilots are better. Russia, maybe."

Caitlin had finished her coffee, and saw that Michael was nearly done, as well. "Guess we're about ready to go?"

"Yeah. Why don't you two--" Hawke started to say something, then hesitated. "On second thought, Cait, why don't you go ahead and do the pre-flight this time? Michael and I will pack this stuff up."

-*-

Hawke swung into the helicopter beside Caitlin as Michael took his position in the back. "We ready?" the pilot asked.

She nodded. "Everything's green."

"Okay, then. Let's go get us a pair of Fennecs." Hawke brought Airwolf to life, her rotors spinning slowly at first, gradually increasing their tempo. They lifted from the forest, staying low to avoid radar detection.

The distance to Laage was covered quickly, and Hawke hugged the treetops, lurking just off the projected flight path Meier had given to Michael. The agent was watching the screens and monitoring radio traffic. "MiGs are in the air. Headed our way," he reported.

"Roger that," Hawke responded, scanning the sky for both the the MiGs and the Fennecs. He spotted the MiGs. "Got them. Here we go." As they passed, he swung Airwolf to follow.

Far below the German planes, Hawke easily kept pace. Beneath his helmet, he allowed himself a grin. He suspected that their pilots had been instructed to throttle back their aircraft in deference to the helicopter that was supposed to joining them. It was unlikely that Michael had shared Airwolf's true capabilities with Meier, and just as doubtful that Meier would have believed the agent even if he had.

"Bogeys. Two of them at ten o'clock. Twenty miles out and closing."

Michael's voice was calm, controlled, void of the rise in pitch that usually accompanied even the most hardened into combat. In just a handful of months, the agent had turned into a damn good engineer, and a competent though not exceptional pilot. _Sure could have used him in 'Nam._ Hawke wasn't sure where that thought had come from, but he filed it away to examine later. He brought his mind back to the present. "That will be the Fennecs. Right on time. Radio the MiGs to get out of here."

A moment later, Hawke saw the two German planes bank and head back toward Laage. "Bogeys at five miles, still closing." Michael's voice came over the intercom.

Black specks appeared in the sky, rapidly growing larger. Hawke killed the turbos and reached up to drop the visor of his helmet. "Deploy the pod and give me a Sparrow."

"Online."

Hawke waited until the other helicopters were almost past him, then jerked Airwolf sharply skyward. He centered the Fennec in the targeting square and pulled the trigger.

"They're dropping chaff," Michael reported.

While Karen Hanson had found a way around the Fennec's active radar jamming, there was no real way to combat chaff, the fine metallic bits that could confuse a radar guided missile and leave it unable to find its target. Hawke saw that the missile was straying. "Another Sparrow."

"You've got it."

Even with the pod deployed, unable to engage the turbos, Airwolf was still a faster ship than the Fennec. Hawke gave chase, wanting to get as close as he could, knowing it would give the missile less of an opportunity to lose its quarry. He pulled the trigger again, feeling the surge as the missile fired.

"Second bird is lobbing heat-seekers. I'm suppressing IF and dropping Sunbursts." Over Michael's words, they heard the explosion as the Sparrow found its target.

Hawke pulled Airwolf to the side, flying into the bright early morning sun that he hoped would further help to disguise their heat signature and perhaps momentarily blind the Fennec's pilots. "Still got one on our tail, Hawke," Michael warned, confirming Hawke's own indications that one of the heat-seeking missiles hadn't taken the bait.

Ordinarily, Hawke would have simply lobbed a few missiles of his own into a convenient hillside. The resulting explosion would be much hotter than Airwolf's exhaust, a trap to snare the enemy missile. Here, he wanted to avoid tearing up any more of the German countryside than he had to. Instead, he swung Airwolf on her axis and triggered the chain guns, raking the approaching projectile.

The detonation was close enough to rock the helicopter. Hawke turned back towards the remaining Fennec, which had turned tail, apparently deciding that Airwolf was a more formidable opponent than the MiGs. Hawke followed, determined that the helicopter wouldn't escape.

"He's headed for Poland," Michael warned.

They were only about eighty miles from the border, and Hawke wanted it finished before they left German airspace. "Sparrow," he called, as he closed on the Fennec,

"Got it."

Hawke's finger pulled the trigger, firing the missile. Sunlight sparkled on aluminum chaff, and the Fennec dodged wildly, ducking away as the Sparrow narrowly slipped past its target. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. Whoever they were, these pilots were more skilled than most of those he had faced. "Another."

"Roger that. Thirty miles to Polish airspace," the agent reminded.

As they caught up to the Fennec, her pilot descended, dropping until he was scant feet above the treetops. The area was, luckily, only lightly populated. It seemed to consist mostly of farmland and forests. Hawke neared the other helicopter, waiting until he was almost on them before firing the Sparrow. The missile found its intended target, and Hawke's gaze followed the remains to earth. He breathed a sigh of relief as they crashed into an empty field. Perhaps Meier would reimburse the farmer for whatever crops had been destroyed.

He raised his helmet visor. "Let's go home."

-*-

It was quiet. Too quiet. The waiting was getting on Hawke's nerves. Locke was out there, Locke and the remaining Fennec. Unfortunately, both were staying out of sight. _He's planning something. Something big. _Hawke was certain of it. The only question was what.

The pilot had planned to spend the day fishing, but had quickly found that he lacked the patience. Somehow, he had found himself in the Red Star hanger, giving Airwolf a through cleaning. He had just shut off the vacuum when he heard the sound of a door closing. He moved to put Airwolf between himself and the entrance, and reached into the helicopter to retrieve his sidearm.

"Hawke? You here?"

Recognizing Michael's voice, Hawke replaced the automatic with a sigh of relief. "Yeah."

The agent joined him, uncharacteristically wearing denims and a chambray shirt. "I was surprised when I saw your helicopter stashed in the second bay."

Hawke motioned towards the vacuum and the rags on the workbench. "Thought the Lady could use a good once-over." He eyed Michael with more curiosity than suspicion. "You?"

"I planned to check the inventory, make sure there's nothing we need."

_Right._ Michael maintained the inventory down to the last rivet. He didn't need to check it. "Bored, huh?" Hawke asked, grinning.

Michael ducked his head sheepishly. "Cait told me to make myself scarce. I was driving her crazy."

In a way, Hawke was relieved to know that he wasn't the only one who was getting restless. _Well, there was one sure solution to that._ "What do you say we do some flying?"

-*-

The desert floor slipped past beneath them, close enough for the rotor wash to scatter sand in their wake. Hawke glanced over toward the pilot's seat. Michael held the controls lightly, not with the death grip he had maintained when he had first flown Airwolf, only a few months earlier. "Want to try the turbos?"

The agent shot a quick glance to his left, one that carried a look of disbelief with it. "At this altitude?"

Hawke smothered a laugh. "Take her up to fifteen thousand." He wasn't worried about showing up on radar. They were far enough from civilization that if anyone decided to come looking, they'd be gone long before company ever arrived.

Michael pulled back sharply on the controls, sending Airwolf shooting dramatically skywards. _Showboating_, Hawke realized with a touch of amusement. His student was growing more confident by the day. The aircraft leveled off at the specified altitude. "You remember what I told you last time?" Hawke asked.

"The controls are more sensitive. Small movements. Don't over-correct."

Hawke nodded. He checked the radar, assuring himself that there was no other traffic anywhere nearby, then looked over at Michael. "You ready?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, then. Turbos on three." Hawke wrapped his hand around the lever. "One...two...three."

The sudden jolt of thrust pushed them both back into their seats. For just a moment, Airwolf's nose dipped, but then Michael eased it upwards, correcting her trajectory.

Hawke's hands hovered above the controls, not quite touching them, but ready to take command if he needed to do so. He let Michael have a couple minutes to adapt to how the helicopter reacted. "How's she feel?"

"Like you said. Touchy."

"Try a couple big sweeping turns."

The agent complied, Airwolf cutting long arcs through the sky. "Like that?"

"Good. Let's have some more, but start tightening the turns. Try climbing and descending. When you're ready, take her up to fifty thousand, and down as low as you feel comfortable. See how she flies at different altitudes."

Michael did as he was told. Hawke kept an eye on the radar, watching for any approaching traffic while the agent experimented. "She takes more input at altitude," Michael observed, as he completed another turn.

"Air's thinner. If you keep climbing, eventually you reach an altitude where the stick really doesn't have any effect at all."

"Is that the voice of experience talking?"

"Dom and I tried it once. He wasn't impressed by my attempt to turn Airwolf into a spaceship." In retrospect, considering what they had since learned, Dom's complaints were oddly prophetic.

Michael chuckled. "I can't even imagine what Santini would say if he knew I was flying his Lady."

Hawke had considered that, more than once. Not only how the old Italian would feel about Michael being a part of the Airwolf crew, but about the agent's marriage to Caitlin, and the growing friendship between them. Dom's death had left a giant void in Hawke's heart, one that had, with a minimum of urging from Jason Locke, been sufficient to keep Hawke locked away from the world, alone at the cabin. With the support of Michael and Caitlin, that hole was finally starting to close. "All things considered, I think he'd be alright with it," Hawke said, finally, allowing himself a grin. "But he'd still rag on you about your wardrobe."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." Michael glanced over at Hawke and raised an eyebrow. "You sure that's a good idea?"

The pilot's arms were folded across his chest. "You know what you're doing," he grinned. "Although I don't think we'll try any mach plus canyon runs just yet."

Michael snorted. "I don't think we'll ever be trying any high speed canyon runs."

Hawke wasn't entirely sure of that, but didn't argue the point. He let the silence stretch for a few minutes before finally breaking it. "Whatever happened to that simulator Winchester built?"

"Far as I know, the Firm still has it. Last I heard, it had been moved to Knightsbridge. I think Locke and Rivers trained on it while they were looking for Airwolf."

"Think Zeus would let us use it?"

"I don't see any reason why he wouldn't."

"Give him a call tomorrow. See if you can set it up."

Michael finished the climbing turn he was making, leveling off the aircraft. "After I stuff the simulator into the mountainside a few times, will you believe it when I tell you that I'm not capable of supersonic nap-of-the-earth flying?"

"Maybe, but that's not what I had in mind."

The agent glanced his way. "Dare I ask?"

"Combat. Time you got some practice."

It was a long moment before Michael responded. "Hawke, kill the damn turbos."

He did as Michael asked, re-engaging the rotors as the helicopter slowed. "Turbo's killed," Hawke stated, unnecessarily.

Despite the helmet that obscured much of his expression, Hawke could see the emotions that warred on Michael's face. "The purpose of my learning to fly Airwolf was to give you and Cait a break on long flights. Not to take her into combat."

"Funny, but the way I remember it, you were worried about what would happen if Cait and I got into a jam and for some reason were incapacitated. Hate to tell you this, Michael, but getting into a jam in Airwolf usually involves enemy aircraft."

Michael didn't answer immediately. "I'm too old for this."

"You're a hell of a lot younger than Dom was."

The agent looked over sharply. "Dom was flying combat before you were born, and flew damn near every day for most of his life. I didn't fly at all for nearly fifteen years. You really think there's a comparison?"

Hawke sighed. "Michael, I'm not asking you to go up against Locke, or anyone else for that matter. I just want you to spend some time in the simulator learning tactics, just in case."

"Just in case?"

Hawke could hear the doubt in Michael voice. "Yeah," the pilot confirmed. "Just in case."

Michael shook his head. "I'm going to regret this."

-*-

Airwolf whipped through the canyon, threading its way between the rock walls. "Altitude," Hawke warned, seeing the gauge start to inch its way upwards.

"Damn it," Michael muttered under his breath, the expletive low enough that anyone else would have missed it. He brought the helicopter back on course.

Hawke watched the radar screen, saw the blip appear. "Bogey at twelve o'clock, closing fast."

"Ident?"

"UH-1 Huey. He's arming weapons."

"Initiate radar jamming and IF suppression. Lower the ADF pod and give me a heat-seeker." Michael's voice was clear and calm as he reached up and lowered his targeting visor.

"Sidewinder online."

The Huey appeared before them, growing rapidly larger. Michael triggered the missile, then pulled Airwolf into a sharp climb to keep her away from the resulting explosion. Unfortunately, while keeping them from harm, the move also rendered them visible to radar. "We're being painted."

"I know." Michael ducked back into the canyon. "This splits soon. It should provide at least a little confusion over which way we--"

Whatever else the agent had intended to say remained unvoiced as the cockpit lights suddenly blinked out, leaving them in near darkness. The only light was that which filtered through the frosted front and side windscreens.

The hatch opened with a faint pop, and Zeus appeared silhouetted in brightness of the doorway. He peered inside, his eyebrow rising just a trace as he realized Michael was in the pilot's seat and Hawke in the back. "Sorry to disturb, but if you'd like to get changed and meet me in my office, I have some information on Locke."

The director disappeared, and Hawke exchanged looks with Michael. Whatever Zeus had found, apparently he felt it was important enough for him to personally descend into the Knightsbridge basement looking for them.

Ten minutes later, Zeus waved them into chairs in front of his over-sized desk. "We think Locke is in Bolivia," he began, without preamble.

"Bolivia." It wasn't particularly surprising. The political situation there was far from stable, and was heavily influenced by the drug trade and other illegal enterprises. While Hawke was no expert on world politics, he did try to stay current. Airwolf missions didn't always allow time for a full briefing, and it helped to know what they might be getting themselves into.

Zeus handed a thick folder to Michael, who opened it and began thumbing the pages, pausing occasionally to scan items of interest. "Approximately ten years ago, Norcom Industries bought a large estate near Cochabamba. Buried behind layers of dummy corporations, Norcom was ultimately owned by Andrew Locke. With his death, ownership passed to his son."

Michael looked up from the file he was perusing. "Norcom is a computer company?"

"Supposedly. If you'll look toward the back of that file, when they first set up shop, they made some rather interesting purchases."

The agent flipped to the final few pages of the report. Hawke waited while Michael read through the material, scowled, and flipped back to re-read something. He pulled several pages from the folder and passed them over to Hawke.

The list detailed an assortment of electrical parts, computers and the components to build them. There was nothing surprising there. "I don't see..." Abruptly, he found what Michael had spotted. "Oh." Medical equipment. At a guess, there seemed to be enough to set up a fair sized clinic or laboratory. Hawke's frown matched Michael's. "Drug lab?" he guessed, returning the papers to Michael. "Or perhaps he knew that he had cancer, and was looking for a cure?"

"We're not sure." Zeus eyed the two men who sat across from him. "There's another possibility." He appeared to be choosing his words carefully. "I suspect that by now you've found the connection between White Sands and Airwolf."

Hawke said nothing, letting Michael answer. This was his world; the agent was the one with the expertise in dealing with Zeus and the Firm's web of innuendo, secrets and half-truths.

"We have a working hypothesis," Michael allowed.

Zeus nodded. He drummed his fingers on the desk, hesitating before finally coming to an apparent decision. "It's possible that there may be something resembling an organic component to that connection."

_Organic? _ Hawke was uncertain what that meant, but from the look on the director's face, the pilot knew that no clarification would be forthcoming. "I want Jason Locke." Zeus's voice hardened. "One way or another. And I want that final Fennec destroyed." The director pushed his chair back and stood, signaling the end of their meeting.

The other two men rose. "May we keep this?" Michael asked, indicating the file.

"Please do," There was a hesitation. "Mr. Hawke, might I have just a moment of your time?"

Hawke glanced at Michael, who gave an almost unnoticeable shrug. "I'll meet you outside."

As the agent let himself out, Hawke turned back to Zeus. "Yes?"

The director circled his desk. "When you asked about using the simulator, I didn't know..."

"That I was training Michael?" Hawke finished for him.

"Yes."

The pilot wasn't in the mood for an argument. "You have a problem with that?"

Zeus shook his head, looking more than a little awkward. "Actually, I don't. I just question..." He looked up sharply. "I know it's been a long time since he's flown. Is he any good?"

"Yeah," Hawke answered, uncertain whether he was more surprised by the question, or by the director's apparent acceptance of Michael's new role. "As a matter of fact, he is."

The expression that crossed Zeus's face appeared to be one of relief. "I was going to say that if you needed another pilot, I could provide you with one. However, all things considered, I think the fewer people who know about Airwolf, the better."

"For once we agree. Your pilot won't be required. I've got all the crew I need."

Zeus nodded, standing. "Very good, then. Feel free to use the simulator whenever you'd like."

-*-

Michael entered the house from the garage. His mind was still on the Ferrari, recently delivered from storage and still in need of routine maintenance. Fortunately, the car had been in Washington when Horn's helicopter had shredded the house, and it had escaped the destruction.

Caitlin looked up from where she sat on the sofa. She thumbed the remote, turning off the television. "I want to have a dinner."

Preoccupied, Michael didn't register exactly what she said. He glanced toward the clock, frowning. "It's early for dinner, isn't it?"

She laughed, rising to follow him as he went to the kitchen sink to wash the grease from his hands. "I said I wanted to have a dinner, not that I wanted to eat dinner. You know, a dinner party. Friends, food, a beverage or two."

He dried his hands on a paper towel. "So what's the occasion?"

"Do we need one? The house is back together, and there's nothing that we can do about Locke until Zeus comes up with more intel. It would be nice to spend an evening just relaxing with friends, don't you think?" She ran a finger slowly down the front of the shirt he wore.

He smiled down at her. "Are you trying to seduce me into saying yes?"

"Depends. Will it work?" Caitlin tipped her head back to look up at him, her eyes sparkling with humor.

"I haven't decided yet. Just who are you planning to invite to this dinner?"

"I don't know. String, Marella, maybe?"

_So that was what she was up to._ "You wouldn't be thinking of playing matchmaker, would you?"

"Matchmaker? No, of course not. I just thought it would be good to get together." She didn't quite succeed in sounding innocent.

Michael considered it. Marella and Hawke struck him as an unlikely couple, but if Caitlin wanted to put the two in a room together and see what came of it, that seemed harmless enough. He pulled her toward him, wrapping his arms around her. "I suppose I could be convinced."

Caitlin was watching him, studying his expression. "I though we might make an evening of it. Maybe spend some time in the pool afterwards?"

He knew she was asking his permission. Michael seldom stripped down any further than a polo shirt and long pants, at least not when anyone was around. But, Marella and Hawke weren't strangers. He had no secrets from either of them. Michael nodded. "Sure, why not? Call Marella and see what her schedule is. Hawke should be pretty flexible. When you set it up, tell them to bring their suits."

-*-

Hawke finished the last of the slice of cheesecake, setting his fork on the dessert plate before pushing it back. "Excellent," he told Caitlin, then looked toward Michael, grinning. "The way I remember it, she could barely boil water. What did you do, send her to culinary school?"

"Actually, he taught me to cook." Caitlin had started clearing the table.

"I had to," Michael answered, as he refilled their wine glasses. "I couldn't use my damn arm, and I was getting sick of take-out. It was either that or starve."

"Michael!" Caitlin was trying to look annoyed, but couldn't quite manage to pull it off. "Just for that, the left-overs are going home with String and Marella."

Marella set her napkin down, the corner of her mouth rising in a smile. "Did he ever tell you who taught _him_ to cook?"

Gathering the last of the dishes, Caitlin paused. "No, come to think of it, he didn't."

"I did. I was working on my Master's at the time. Michael let me stay with him for a couple semesters."

Michael chuckled. "What she's not telling you is that she stayed with me because she was simultaneously attending three degree programs at two universities. Getting me to do the cooking was the only way she had time to eat."

_That answered a few questions._ Hawke had always wondered how Marella had managed such an extensive education. He glanced over at Caitlin, who had returned to the table. It didn't appear that the jealousy she felt for Maria extended to Michael's former assistant.

Obviously uncomfortable with the discussion of her academic history, Marella changed the topic. "How's the hunt for Locke coming?"

"Slowly," Michael answered. "We know that he owns a computer company in Bolivia, or more precisely, that he inherited the company from his father." He hesitated before continuing. "Andrew Locke worked at White Sands with Moffet, and he helped install Airwolf's computers."

"So you think Locke has the remaining Fennec stashed in Bolivia?"

"We don't know yet. It appears that the money from the other helicopters was funneled into accounts there, so he's bound to show up eventually. The Firm has the place under observation."

Hawke considered Marella a resource. There was no reason not to get her take on things. "What do you make of this supposed computer company purchasing several hundred thousand dollars worth of medical supplies before they even opened?"

A frown creased her brow. "What kind of supplies?"

"I'll show you." Michael rose and left the room. He returned several minutes later with a handful of papers that he passed to his former assistant.

She read through the papers. "You say this is a computer company?"

"Allegedly. It wouldn't shock me if it was at least partially a cover for a drug operation."

Her frown deepened. "I don't think so. There is some lab equipment listed, but that doesn't seem to be the bulk of it."

"So what are they doing, then?" Caitlin asked.

Marella gave the list a second look before handing it back to Michael. She scowled. "I'll be damned if I know. Most of this list looks more like someone setting up a field hospital, or even an ICU."

_That was a surprise._ Hawke tried to think of a logical explanation. "Any chance they set up a clinic for the locals, maybe trying to gain the support of their neighbors?"

"Doubt it." Michael shot the idea down. "If there was anything along those lines going on, the Firm would have noticed. This is something they're keeping in-house."

Curiouser and curiouser. Hawke wasn't sure if he should bring the subject up with Marella, but given what she already knew, it probably didn't matter. "It's been suggested that there might be an 'organic' component to Airwolf's computers, whatever that means. Anything on the list fit?"

"Organic? In what way?"

"We don't know. I don't think we were supposed to be told as much as we were." Michael answered.

She held out her hand. "Let me take another look at those papers."

Michael passed them over and she scanned the list again. Marella looked toward her former boss. "You do realize this is well outside of my area of expertise?" At his answering nod, she continued. "There's speculation that the computers of the future may be neurocomputers. Classes I've taken have touched on the idea, but as far as I know, it's all still theoretical. Some of this," she tapped the papers in front of her, "It could fit. But..." Marella shook her head in confusion.

"What?" Hawke asked.

"The rest is purely medical. Some of it is fairly advanced medical equipment. What a computer company would be doing with it, I have no idea." A thought occurred to her. "You say they bought this before they opened?"

"So I'm told." Michael had started flipping through the papers himself.

"Do we know what they've bought since?"

He abruptly dropped the sheet he was holding. "That's a damn good question." Michael rose to his feet. "Let me see what I can find out."

While Michael went to call the Firm, Marella turned her attention back to the list. She couldn't help but think there was something she was missing, something that should be obvious. As he returned, she looked up, catching his expression. _He had found out something._

"There's no record of recent purchases, apparently they're now buying through Bolivian sources rather than importing." Sliding into his seat, Michael reached for his wine glass. "Zeus wasn't in. I asked Helen to run me a copy of everything they do have. She's putting it together as we speak."

"And?" Caitlin asked.

"She read off a few of the purchases from shortly after they opened." He looked toward Marella. "One thing caught my attention. Silvadene. A large quantity of it."

She saw the confused look that flashed between Caitlin and Hawke. Apparently neither of them knew what it was. "It's an antibiotic ointment," Marella explained. "The primary use is in treating severe burns."

Hawke scowled. "What the hell would they be doing with that?"

_What indeed?_ That was a damned good question. She only wished she had an answer.

-*-

The evening passed quickly. Complaining that they were spending too much time talking "shop", Caitlin had suggested adjourning to the pool. The others had agreed, and had separated to change into swim suits. A few minutes later, having changed, Marella walked out onto the deck. The lights from the house reflected off the pool in the twilight, the dancing patterns a sharp contrast to the inky silhouettes of the surrounding trees against the darkening sky. The two men were already in the pool. "Coming in?" Hawke called, splashing water in her direction.

She echoed his teasing tone. "How's the water?"

"Wet." It was Michael who answered.

Marella laughed and slipped off the cover-up she was wearing over her bathing suit, tossing it over one of the chairs. She had started toward the pool, but paused to wait as Caitlin came out onto the deck and joined her.

"Are they giving you a hard time?" Caitlin asked, shedding her own robe. The suit she wore was a modest green two-piece. It looked good on her trim figure.

"Nothing I can't handle." Marella replied, watching the men's horseplay with amusement. In the center of the pool, Michael dodged Hawke, who was trying without success to dunk him. As he moved out of the pilot's reach, Michael turned away, his back toward her.

Her breath caught in her throat. She had seen the scars before, more than once, but they never failed to remind her of just how fortunate she was. _If Michael hadn't shielded her..._ There was no question of what the flames would have done to the synthetic fibers of the clothing she had been wearing that day. Marella knew she owed Michael a debt that she could never repay.

"Marella?" The concern was evident in Caitlin's voice.

The former agent shook her head, trying to ignore the shiver that had run through her. "It's nothing."

Caitlin eyed her, following the direction of her gaze. She reached down to grab the two beach robes. "Guys," Caitlin called, raising her voice to get their attention. "We're going back inside for a little while. Try not to drown each other, will ya?"

Marella allowed herself to be led into the house and seated at the breakfast nook while Caitlin put coffee on. "I'm sorry." Embarrassed by her reaction, she could feel the heat rise in her cheeks.

"Don't be." While the coffee brewed, the redhead slipped into the seat on the other side of the table. For a moment, she covered Marella's hand with her own. "You know," she began, "You're not alone. We've all been there. Memories flooding back when you least expect them. For me, it's needles or the sight of blood. Hawke's triggers are tied back to Viet Nam. Michael--" Caitlin hesitated, looking down as she continued. "He'd gotten past the nightmares, and I thought he had buried his demons. Then one day we were horsing around. Um, we were sort of playing with a blindfold..." It was Caitlin's turn to blush. "That's all it took to send him back into Stoner's lab. It scared the hell out of both of us."

Marella nodded. Michael had told her about that episode, had given her details of what Stoner had done to him that she knew he had never shared with Caitlin. "Post traumatic stress. Between the four of us, we could keep a shrink in business for years."

Caitlin laughed humorlessly. "Keep him in business or send him screaming into the streets. I'm not sure which."

"Too bad it's not an option." There were too many secrets, too many things they couldn't talk about with an outsider, and wouldn't dare discuss with a company supplied doctor. Unfortunately, keeping those secrets would defeat the purpose of psychotherapy.

Caitlin rose to retrieve cups from the cupboard. She poured coffee, pushing a cup across the table to Marella before sitting back down. "Is that why you left the Firm?"

"No." She shook her head. "I had planned to go back, once I completed my residency." Marella sipped her coffee, the hot liquid warming her. "I didn't like what the Firm did to Michael, sending him off to Washington."

"He was miserable."

"I know. Believe me, I heard about it every time I talked to him." Marella remembered the phone calls, the frustration and occasional anger she had heard in his voice. "It was a damn waste, punishing him for taking care of men that our own government had abandoned."

"So you went into private practice."

"I'd had enough of answering to the committee." Michael might have been too stubborn to quit and walk away, but she wasn't.

"I can't say I blame you there, although I can't quite imagine how you ended up in pediatrics."

Marella smiled. "If I was going to work with individuals who acted like children, I figured they might as well _be_ children."

Caitlin winced. "Ouch!"

"It all worked out. My practice is doing well, it keeps me busy."

Eyes watching Marella over the rim of the cup, Caitlin sipped her coffee. "You don't miss it? The Firm, I mean?"

"Sometimes," Marella admitted. "Parts of it. The travel, the adventure. On the other hand, it's nice knowing that you're not going to get a phone call in the middle of the night with orders to be on the first flight to Europe." She hesitated. "What about you? You were away from the business for years, and now you're back. How do you feel about it?"

Caitlin didn't answer immediately, instead choosing to nurse her coffee. "I missed String and Dom," she said, finally. "But I never realized how much I missed the Lady until I flew her again."

Marella nodded her understanding. "Is Michael as happy as he seems?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Caitlin smiled.

"It's more than just Airwolf and getting out of DC, isn't it? He and Hawke...?"

"Something's changed between them." Caitlin hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "String isn't the same person he was. He lost Dom, and even though his brother came back, I don't think the relationship was what he thought it would be. Too much had happened to both of them. Different experiences. They weren't close like they were when they were kids, they had grown apart..." She broke off, fidgeting with the corner of a napkin.

"In some ways, they're a lot alike, aren't they?" Marella suspected she knew what Caitlin was trying to say. 'Michael and Hawke, I mean."

"Yeah. No family, or at least none they want anything to do with, Few friends. The willingness to play outside of the rules when they have to."

"And an unhealthy fascination with a certain Lady." The corners of Marella's mouth curved upwards.

Caitlin returned the smile. "Oh yes. That, too."

Marella finished her coffee and rose from the table. "They must be wondering where we went. I think it's time we went back out to the pool."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Marella pushed the lingering memories of the past back into the dark closet where they usually lurked, and firmly closed the door behind them. "Let's go have some fun."

-*-

Michael opened the door to find Hawke leaning against the door frame, eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses. "Come on. We're going for a ride."

_Now what? _ "Good morning to you, too." Michael opened the door wider. "I just made coffee. Assuming this isn't a national emergency, come in and join me for a cup while you tell me what you've got in mind."

The pilot hesitated, then finally pulled off his sunglasses and followed Michael into the house. "Where's Cait?" he asked, settling into a seat at the kitchen table.

"Shopping." Michael poured the coffee before joining Hawke. "So where are we going?"

"Red Star."

Sometimes trying to get information out of Hawke was more effort than it was worth. "Going to take Airwolf out and get some seat time?" If that was the plan, Michael wasn't about to object. It was a beautiful day, it would be excellent flying weather.

"No. We're going to take her apart." Hawke took a deep swallow of his coffee. "I want to know what the hell Zeus meant by 'organic'."

Michael considered that. "With the amount of work you and Santini did on her, I can't imagine that there's much of that helicopter you haven't seen."

Hawke finished his coffee. "The actual computer core is a sealed unit. Dom and I never opened it." He set the cup down. "I think it's time we did."

Michael rose. _Hawke was right. They needed to know what was in that computer. _ "Let me leave Cait a note."

-*-

Hawke worked himself further beneath the engineering console. So far, the only things that he had learned were that the core was almost impossible to reach, and that Moffet hadn't intended for anyone to get inside it. He snaked a hand free. "Give me a screwdriver."

"Flat or Phillips?"

"Medium size flat."

There was a rattle of tools as Michael found what he needed. "That do it?" A handle was pressed into Hawke's hand.

"Hope so." The pilot worked the screwdriver into position, using it to pry on the cover of the enigmatic metallic box.

"Watch yourself."

"Yeah." It had already occurred to Hawke that Moffet might have left a nasty surprise for anyone trying to access the inner workings of the computer. He half expected an electrical shock, or worse. Under his continued assault, the cover started to wiggle. "I think I've--" Hawke began, breaking off mid-sentence as the cover came loose. "Got it."

"It's open?"

"Yep."

"What's in there?" Hawke could sense Michael leaning into the helicopter, undoubtedly trying to see past him.

"Damned if I know." There were things he did recognize. "Some sort of air filtration system. Circuit boards. Looks like they might connect to something external."

"Well, we know it interfaces with the rest of the systems. What else?"

"Plastic tubing, with a clear liquid inside of it. Cooling system, maybe?" Computers tended to generate a lot of heat. Most had fans of one sort or another, this might require something more.

"Possibly."

Hawke tried to find a way to describe the rest of what he saw. "Black bricks. Small black bricks."

There was a second's hesitation. "What?"

"You heard me. Small black bricks. About two inches by three. At least, that's what they look like. The texture is right. The surface is sort of rough, deckled, similar to concrete. Might be a little glossier than an actual brick. Doesn't really look like plastic, though." He wasn't about to touch any of it. "Whatever they are, they appear to be solid. I don't see any joints or manufacturing lines, anything like that. Just wires and the tubing seamlessly disappearing into them."

"Those bricks..." Michael paused, as if considering what he was going to say. "Zeus used the word 'organic'. Could they have been grown, rather than manufactured?"

_Grown._ The thought took him back to Winchester's notes, the quote from Moffet about Airwolf being a living thing. "Maybe."

"You done? Come out of there, and let me take a look."

Hawke wiggled his way out from under the console, blinking as his eyes became accustomed to the light. He moved out of the way, allowing Michael access to the rear compartment of the helicopter. "Fair warning, it's a tight fit."

"So I noticed." The agent inched his way backwards, ducking beneath the controls. "Damn."

"Stuck?" Hawke fought a grin.

"You try getting in here with a bum arm."

"Sorry." Michael covered the infirmity so well that Hawke sometimes forgot that he had limited use of his shoulder.

It took Michael a couple minutes to work himself into position. "You're right," he said, finally, voice muffled as it came from beneath the console. "They do look like miniature black bricks. Rows of them."

Hawke resisted the urge to remind the agent that he had already stated that. "Hard to believe that's at the heart of Airwolf's systems."

There was a pause. "You want me to see if I can get this back together?'

"Nah, I'll get it." As much as Hawke didn't want to crawl inside the cramped confines of the console again, he knew how difficult it had been to get the unit apart. Trying to reassemble it would be even harder for Michael.

They switched places, and Hawke worked to replace the cover he had removed. "We should have brought Cait," he joked, as he finished securing it in place. "She's younger and thinner than either of us."

"I don't think I want her poking around in there." Michael's voice carried an unusually serious tone.

Joking aside, when Hawke considered it, he realized he felt the same way. "Yeah." _Technology so alien that he couldn't even identify it as a computer._ When he let himself think about it, the whole thing still gave him the creeps. Backing out of the console, he replaced the access panels, then sat in Airwolf's open hatchway, stretching the kinks out of his neck. "How the hell did Moffet ever figure out what it was, never mind how to program it or replicate the technology?"

Standing beside the helicopter, Michael shook his head. "Damned if I know. Moffet had a genius IQ, but..."

-*-

Zeus leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "Locke has the remaining Fennec at Norcom Industries."

It was what they had assumed, but now the Firm apparently had proof of it. Hawke studied the director's scowl. "Your people tried to take him on, didn't they?"

The scowl deepened. "Not Firm personnel. Locals hired to work for us. Damn fools. They were told to observe and report. Somehow they got their hands on a Stinger, and decided that they might get a bonus if they solved our problem themselves."

Hawke glanced toward Michael, noting that the agent appeared to be just as annoyed as he was. "So much for the element of surprise."

"Yes," Zeus agreed, rather grudgingly. "However, the ensuing firefight did reveal that Locke also has at least two Hughes 500s." He unfolded his arms and reached forward, retrieving a folder from his desk. He pulled photographs from it, handing copies to both Michael and Hawke. "Norcom," Zeus explained.

The walled compound resembled a fortress. Michael raised an eyebrow. "Interesting building for a computer company. Do we have any more information on what they're actually doing there?"

"Not really. Helen gave you a list of their imports, correct?" Zeus waited for an answering nod. "As you've seen, there are some computer components listed, particularly among the more recent purchases. The rest..." He shrugged.

"Yeah." Hawke considered it. They had gone over the reports with Marella. The early purchases had been the oddest; before Norcom had even opened, they had acquired nearly enough medical equipment to allow them to open a small hospital. If that had, indeed, been what they were planning, then a inordinately high percentage of their equipment and supplies had been geared toward caring for burn victims. Later purchases seemed to consist mainly of lab equipment -- beakers, tubing and the like -- as well as electronic and computer parts.

Dropping the photo of the Norcom compound back onto the director's desk, Michael frowned. "It's unfortunate they're no longer importing. I'd like to get some idea of what they've been buying lately."

The most recent records were over three years old. After that, Norcom had either made their purchases from local Bolivian sources or had found a way to bypass Customs. Hawke brought his attention back to Zeus as the director handed over several sheets of paper, and passed others to Michael. "This is an overview of what our contacts were able to learn. There's not a lot there. They weren't able to get inside; Locke's people have guards on each entrance."

Hawke flipped through the pages, looking for the scant information there was regarding layout and fortifications. He caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned his head. Michael leaned forward in his chair, his attention piqued by something he had found. "According to this, the building was purchased in September of 1983?"

"I believe that date is correct." Zeus eyed him questioningly.

Hawke understood the significance. He exchanged a look with the agent. "That wasn't long before Moffet took Airwolf. You think old man Locke was a part of his plans?"

"I'd bet on it." Michael turned back to the director. "Do you have precise dates on when Norcom received those early shipments?"

Zeus opened a desk drawer and pulled a file from it. He rummaged through the folder until he found what he wanted, then wordlessly passed the paper to Michael. The agent scanned it, stopping abruptly and raising his head to meet Hawke's gaze. "The first shipment of medical supplies was delivered to Norcom three days after you liberated Airwolf from Libya. Given how long it would take to place and receive an expedited order..."

Hawke could see where the agent's thoughts were headed. "No."

"Are you sure--?"

He cut Michael off, fighting back flaring emotions. "There's no way in hell. I dumped every missile Airwolf had left. Air-to-air, air-to-ground. Everything. A cockroach couldn't have survived that inferno, never mind a human being." _Not that Moffet counted as human._

"Hawke, I--"

"Michael, you were inside a reinforced concrete hard point, behind three inches of bullet-proof glass. Even so, you nearly died. Moffet was alone in the middle of the desert." _Hawke could still see him, standing in front of the Jeep, revolver aimed at Airwolf's refueling port. Could see the explosions that enveloped him._ Taking a deep breath, Hawke shook the vision away. "I don't know what the hell Norcom was doing with those supplies, but they weren't for him. Moffet is dead and buried beneath the sands of Libya."

Zeus had been silently watching the exchange. "Gentlemen." He stood, breaking the tension between the others and signifying their dismissal. "Mr. Hawke," Zeus turned his attention to the pilot. "After you have taken care of the Fennec, and Jason Locke... I want the Norcom building leveled. Completely. Is that understood?"

Whatever was being built -- _or grown_ -- at Norcom, Zeus wanted it destroyed. For once, Hawke totally agreed with the director. "Understood."

-*-

Michael settled into the rear seat as Hawke began bringing Airwolf's systems to life. He rolled his neck, working away the lingering stiffness that remained after spending the night sleeping on the ground in the helicopter's shadow. "You really think Locke is going to come to us?" the agent asked, as he checked the monitors and gauges of the engineering console, ensuring everything was operating properly.

"He will." Hawke's voice came over the intercom as they lifted gently off the ground. "Locke's got an ego. Of course, that won't prevent him from skewing the odds in his favor."

"The Hughes 500s?" Caitlin asked. They had brought her up-to-date on the information Zeus had provided.

"Yeah. And knowing Locke, probably another surprise or two."

He didn't say it, but Michael agreed with Hawke. Locke wasn't stupid, and he had flown Airwolf enough to know exactly what she was capable of. If he intended to take them on, he would do his best to make sure it wasn't a fair fight.

"We ready?" Hawke asked, helmeted head twisting to see the others.

_Were they?_ If Hawke was right, they would soon find out. "We've got a green board," Michael answered. Caitlin simply nodded.

"Okay, let's do it, then." The pilot swung Airwolf around, heading for Cochabamba.

Norcom was located in the mountains, an area just far enough outside the city to be otherwise deserted. Even without the turbos, it was a only a short flight from the secluded valley where they had rested for the night. Hawke brought them over the crest of the ridge, and descended directly over the compound. He hung just above the building, announcing their presence.

Small arms fire sounded from below, someone with a Uzi ineffectually raking Airwolf's belly. "Guess they know we're here," Hawke announced, triggering a short burst from the chain guns that sent the sentry running for cover.

Michael looked up from his monitors, a quick glance that revealed a flurry of activity on the ground, personnel scrambling. More ammunition rattled off of the hull, and Hawke spun the helicopter on her axis, finding and neutralizing the machine gun nest. "Computer company, huh?" Hawke snorted.

There were more targets, more gunners who mistakenly though they were a match for the sleek black helicopter that had appeared in their midst. As Caitlin called off positions, Hawke calmly silenced them.

Doing his best to ignore the destruction Airwolf was raining upon the men on the ground, Michael watched the screen before him. Just as he had begun to wonder if Hawke had been wrong about Locke coming to them, blips appeared on the radar. "I've got a pair of Hughes," he called out. "Converging on our location, five miles out, ten and two o'clock."

"I see them," Hawke answered. "The Fennec?"

Even as the pilot asked the question, a third contact appeared on Michael's monitor. "Ten miles, dead ahead. Coming down from thirty thousand."

Hawke wrenched Airwolf to starboard, angling after one of the Hughes helicopters. "Give me a Sidewinder."

Gaze never leaving the screen, Michael found the controls by memory and armed the missile. "Got it," he confirmed. Numbers scrolled across his monitor. "That Fennec is coming down on us fast, Hawke."

"Suppress radar and IF." The pilot brought Airwolf to bear on the first Hughes, which dodged, trying to evade them.

"Already done."

Behind them, the second 500 launched a heat-seeker. Michael thumbed the button to drop a sunburst even as Hawke's Sidewinder hit the ship before them. He stole a quick look, watching as the enemy helicopter dropped earthward belching thick, black smoke. _One down._

Hawke pulled Airwolf into a tight turn, in time for Michael to see the missile that had been launched at them follow the white-hot decoy into the side of a mountain. More rounds echoed as they bounced off the hull, these from the Fennec that streaked toward them. As it whipped by, Hawke triggered Airwolf's cannons. Passing close enough to look into the cockpit, the helicopter continued on, shells ineffective against its heavily armored skin.

"That was definitely Locke!" Caitlin's voice came over the intercom.

"Yeah." Hawke's reply was short as turned on the remaining Hughes. "Time to even the odds. Another Sidewinder."

"Ready." Michael divided his attention between tracking the Fennec's movements on the screen, and watching the smaller helicopter they were chasing. The sharp alarm tone brought his attention fully back to his console. "He's got a radar lock on us!" the agent warned, reaching for the countermeasures board.

"How the hell...?"

Michael understood Hawke's confusion. To date, the Fennecs had been unable to penetrate their jamming signals. "Locke must have made the same modifications we did. I'm dropping chaff."

As Hawke fired the heat-seeker at the Hughes, Michael thumbed the button. The fine bits of aluminum formed a brilliant, reflective cloud behind Airwolf, confusing the radar guidance of the missile that chased them.

Over the pulse of the rotors, Michael could hear the explosion as the Sidewinder found its mark, and a second as Locke's missile detonated harmlessly below them. _Two down, one to go._

Hawke put Airwolf into a hard climb that pushed Michael down and back into his seat. The agent checked the monitor. The Fennec wasn't following, instead choosing to hover low over the Norcom compound. Apparently, Hawke saw the same thing looking out through the canopy that Michael saw on his screen. "Guess we've got to go and get him." The pilot kicked Airwolf over into a steep descent.

Locke turned as they neared, loosing another missile in their direction. Hawke responded with the chain guns, targeting the weak point they had identified at the base of the rotor. One of the rounds found its mark, sending the Fennec spinning out of control. Other than the incoming projectile, the radar was clear. _That was too easy._ Dropping more chaff, Michael watched Locke's helicopter fall towards earth as Hawke yanked Airwolf to port to avoid the incoming missile.

"Hawke!" Caitlin gestured, and Michael caught the flash of light from the compound below.

The pilot had seen it as well. "Stinger. Hang on," he ordered, pulling Airwolf sharply in the opposite direction. As he did, there was another flare of ignition, then a third from separate locations. "Shit!"

Locke had lured them into a trap. Evading the missile he had launched had brought them into the line of fire for the men on the ground. Hawke dodged the first Stinger, somehow eluded the second. Michael's mind plotted the trajectory of the third, and knew their luck had run out.

He felt the impact as the missile hit somewhere behind him, and waited for the expected explosion that didn't come. Michael swung his head and saw the cloud of mist rapidly filling the back of the helicopter. "Leech!" he shouted into the mic, pulling his belts free and dropping to the deck. The missile was wedged far back in the tail. Holding his breath, he crawled deeper into the aft compartment.

Hawke's voice came over the intercom. "Close your visor!"

Michael was paying little attention. He couldn't quite get to the Leech, and there was nothing at hand that he could use to extend his reach. He knew he was running out of time. _Shit!_ He tore off the helmet and flailed it ahead of him, banging at the projectile, trying to hammer it free. Finally he could hold out no longer and had to breath, burning lungs gasping for air and inhaling the acrid mist.

Uncertain whether he had succeeded in knocking the missile loose, Michael felt his hold on awareness slipping. Barely conscious, he heard the pitch of the rotors change. No longer able to fight the fog that was enveloping him, his last thought was that Hawke was descending.

-*-

Michael woke slowly, remembering his last moments of consciousness aboard Airwolf, time spent fighting to get the missile free before he was overcome. He stayed motionless, eyes closed, trying to take in as much as possible of his surroundings before anyone who might be watching realized he was awake.

He was laying on his left side on a hard, unyielding surface, his wrists handcuffed behind him. Listening closely, he heard someone else's breathing, a hoarse, raspy sound. Unable to determine anything else, he carefully slitted his eyes, opening them just enough to get a look at his surroundings.

The windowless room was brightly lit from above, off-white walls and no furniture that he could see, an area that seemed to be about the size of the average bedroom. He was laying on the floor. From his position, it was impossible to see the other resident of the room. Abandoning the pretense of unconsciousness, moving awkwardly with his hands secured behind him, he pushed himself into a sitting position.

"About time." Hawke was resting against the wall, hands behind him and presumably cuffed. There was a large lump on his temple with blood still trickling from it, and from the way he was hunched forward and his shallow, labored breathing, he appeared to be protecting his ribs.

Michael inched his way toward the pilot. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"Damn smoke was getting into my helmet, I had to land. When I popped the door to try to clear the cockpit, Locke's people jumped me."

"Where's Cait?"

Hawke started to shake his head, apparently thought better of it. "I don't know. Cait was out cold. I couldn't stop them. They took her."

Michael could hear the distress in Hawke's voice, the anguish he felt over his inability to protect Caitlin. As worried as Michael was, he knew that the pilot would have done anything in his power to keep her safe. "She'll be okay. Cait's pretty good at taking care of herself." He said it as much to reassure himself as for Hawke's benefit.

"I know." Hawke's voice dropped in volume. "Come over here."

Slowly, Michael scooted over until he was beside Hawke, back against the wall. He cast a questioning glance at the pilot.

Hawke's voice was even lower, barely a whisper. "Can you pick a lock?"

Michael shot him an incredulous look. After thirty years in the Firm, he'd damn well better be able to. "Yeah," he answered, keeping his voice down.

"Take this, then." Twisting his body to hide what he was doing from any possible hidden cameras, Hawke pushed something toward him. He got a quick glimpse of what it was, before sliding over to where he could pick the item up. A lock pick.

It occurred to Michael that Hawke wouldn't be carrying such a tool if he didn't know how to use it. However, Hawke's wrists were still secured. "You?" he asked pointedly, knowing the pilot would catch his meaning.

"Can't," Hawke admitted. "Splitting headache, can't even think straight. Dizzy as hell."

"You've got a concussion." Judging from his symptoms and his unusual willingness to admit to them, it was probably a fairly serious one.

"Yeah. Bastard hit me in the head with a rifle butt. I don't know how long I was out. I don't really remember them bringing us here."

That wasn't a good sign. It had obviously been more than just a few seconds. "What else? Don't bullshit me." Michael knew that Hawke would downplay his injuries, but he needed to know how badly the pilot was hurt. If they got a chance to escape, he needed to know how much help -- or hindrance -- Hawke would be.

"My ribs. I put up a fight and they worked me over pretty good."

Michael didn't know if that meant the ribs were broken or only bruised, but it didn't really matter. Either way, Hawke wasn't going to be battling his way out of there. "Can you walk?"

"Think so, but I don't know what I'll walk into."

The agent nodded, continuing to pick at the lock that secured the handcuffs. Working behind his back was awkward, and he was more out of practice than he had realized.

There was a noise at the other side of the room, and abruptly the door swung open. Two burly men entered, while a third stood guard at the door. They wore basic uniforms emblazoned with Norcom logos, and carried sidearms in shoulder holsters. Michael saw that one of the men sported a black eye and badly swollen nose. Locke's goon glared at Hawke as he approached, leaving Michael no doubt as to the source of his injuries. The man turned to Michael. "You're coming with us."

Michael hid the pick inside his fist. Hoping to lull the guard into underestimating him, he made a show of having a hard time getting to his feet. It was a mistake. The man shoved him forward and grabbed him roughly by the chain between the cuffs, jerking his arms behind his back and dragging him upwards. The edge of the metal bit into his wrists, and the abrupt motion sent a hot knife shooting through his shoulder and down the length of his arm. Stumbling, he nearly fell, stopped only by the certainty that the guard would just give him another yank if he didn't cooperate.

Hawke started to rise, only to be pushed back by the second man. "No, not you. Just him."

-*-

Michael kept a tight hold on the pick, knowing it might be their only ticket to freedom. One of Locke's lackeys pushed him down the hallway, following the one with the broken nose. The third man had apparently stayed behind to guard the room where Hawke was being held.

They made several turns before they stopped at a solid, windowless door. "Broken nose" opened it, following Michael inside as the other man remained in the hallway, taking a position beside the door. It was a large room, strangely arrayed with a dark sofa and several chairs facing a wall concealed by heavy curtains. _Windows, perhaps?_ Michael filed it away as a possible escape route. He was shoved unceremoniously onto the sofa.

His guard retreated to a position behind Michael, somewhere near the door where they had entered. "You will wait," he said, in heavily accented English.

That suited Michael well. The sofa between them would shield his attempts to unlock the handcuffs. He got to work on the lock, trying to ignore the pain radiating down his right arm from the damaged nerves in his shoulder.

He didn't have to wait long. He heard the door open behind him, the approach of the footsteps. Michael looked up at the last person he ever expected to see.

Charles Henry Moffet. _But that was impossible._ Michael might be willing to believe that somehow Hawke had been wrong, and Moffet had survived Libya. However, the man before him was not some battered survivor. He was healthy, hale -- and not a day older than Moffet had been when he turned Airwolf on Red Star. Michael's mind ran through increasingly unlikely possibilities. _ Illusion? Twin brother? Clone?_ He found his voice. "Who are you?"

Moffet smiled -- a sick, twisted smirk that in and of itself nearly convinced Michael that the man was who he appeared to be. "Surely you haven't forgotten me already, Archangel?"

"I know who you appear to be, but Hawke killed Moffet in Libya." Whoever this was, Michael knew he had to keep the man talking. Behind his back, the agent fought to get the lock open. Since Cambodia, he had had limited sensitivity in his right hand, and the guard's manhandling had only made that worse. His fingers were nearly numb. He shifted the lock pick to his left hand. He had assured Hawke that he could get the cuffs open, but he had seldom practiced left-handed.

The line of the mouth flattened, and the voice hardened. "He tried."

The man certainly sounded like Moffet. "You're telling me you survived?" _Not likely. There wasn't a mark visible on him._

The smile returned, and he circled to lower himself into one of the chairs with an almost feline grace. "Before you pay for what you tried to do to me, perhaps I should tell you a story, Archangel. Parts of it are well above your security clearance, but then, you won't be telling anyone, will you?" He winked, then continued. "Back in 1968, I was asked by the Department of Defense to take part in a highly classified government project at White Sands Missile Range."

"Proteus."

Moffet gave a nod of assent. "And do you know what Project Proteus entailed?"

"Enlighten me." Michael stalled. He knew he was close to having the cuffs open.

"One moment." Rising fluidly to his feet, Moffet looked toward the back of the room, and made a gesture of dismissal, presumably to the guard. Michael heard the door open, and craned his neck to see that the man was gone. Moffet resumed his seat, and picked up where he had left off. "In 1947, an extraterrestrial craft crashed in the vicinity of Roswell, New Mexico. After an initial examination, the government sat on the remnants of that crash for over twenty years. Finally, they decided to bring in the best scientific minds they could find to examine those remains, and reverse engineer the technology from them. Hence, Project Proteus." Moffet leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles, seemingly totally at ease.

If this was Moffet, it certainly wouldn't hurt to play to his ego. "You figured it out."

The man laughed. "Hell, no. I didn't get any further than any of the others. Their technology was so far beyond anything we had that it was virtually unidentifiable. Then one day I was working on something that we thought might be a part of a cooling system. Small black cubes connected by tubing."

Michael fought to keep the recognition off his face. Hawke's black bricks. "Black boxes and tubing?"

"So it seemed. The cubes were a solid mass with no visible way to get into them. I was... I was becoming a bit frustrated by our lack of progress. I pulled out my jackknife and hacked a piece of tubing free. In the process I managed to cut myself. Some of the 'coolant' got into the cut. That's when I found out. That fluid wasn't coolant. For want of a better description, it was blood."

A chill ran down Michael's spine. Hawke had thought it was coolant, too, and he had agreed. "The last time I checked, machines don't have blood."

Moffet shrugged. "I use the term loosely. Spinal fluid would be just as accurate -- or I suppose just as inaccurate. Are you familiar with the concept of nanoprobes?"

Caitlin was a fan of Star Trek, and Michael had watched a fair number of episodes with her. He had a sudden, horrifying image of Moffet sprouting Borg hardware. "I've heard the term."

"It's the closest description I can give you. Sub-microscopic organic machines that are able to bond to a host's DNA, and are equally capable of working on their own, or in conjunction with more traditional technology and computers. It only took a few. Once they entered my blood stream, they began to replicate. They became a part of me, augmenting my own abilities. While I still don't entirely understand how they work, I know how to make them bond with human technology and do my bidding."

Michael was reminded of a quote. _Something about absolute power leading to absolute corruption_. It would be easy to blame Moffet's insanity on alien influence, but the research he had done after the fiasco at Red Star into the scientist's background had revealed a trail of disturbing incidents dating as far back as childhood. A trail that had, unfortunately been overlooked by zealous government agencies more interested in Moffet's intelligence and academics. "None of that explains how you survived Libya."

Moffet hiked an eyebrow. "Doesn't it?" He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. "When Hawke turned Airwolf against me, the initial explosion threw me behind my Jeep. It was just enough protection from the rest that I didn't die instantly. I had a partner who was supposed to meet me in the desert--"

"Andrew Locke."

"Yes. When I failed to make the meeting, he went searching. Andrew arrived just minutes after Hawke had flown away. He found what he thought at first was a badly burned body, but he quickly realized that corpse was somehow still breathing. Andrew expected me to die at any moment, but he brought me back here. Somehow my heart kept beating long enough for the nanoprobes circulating within my blood to begin to heal the damage. Within a month, they had rebuilt my flesh and slothed off that which was burned and dead. I suppose you might say that I was born again, in ways no religion had ever envisioned."

Michael felt the click as the lock finally released and the metal fell away from his wrists. He kept his hands behind him, pretending he was still restrained. If the nanoprobes could bring Moffet back from the brink of death, it was possible they had given him other strengths as well. Michael had no desire to find out by going hand-to-hand with him. He changed tactic. "My understanding is that Andrew Locke died of cancer."

"Yes, the fool. I offered to inject him. He refused to surrender his humanity." Moffet's scowl revealed his opinion of the elder Locke's thinking. "His son had no such compulsion. He was perfectly willing to trade Airwolf and her crew for a chance at immortality."

_So that was Jason's angle._ "Did he get it?"

Moffet shrugged. "He had the nanoprobes in his system. Beyond that, I have no idea. I'm sure you saw his helicopter go down. Either there's a body at the crash site, or there's not."

"Why do you want Airwolf? You must have the ability to recreate it, the Fennecs have the same computer systems."

"The computers are simple. Given proper conditions, they will grow and reproduce themselves. But the Fennecs lack one advantage that Airwolf possesses."

"Speed." The turbos and rotor disengagement system Jenkins had designed.

"Yes." Moffet turned thoughtful. "The initial plan was to steal Airwolf, copy the plans out of the computer, and then sell her to Gaddafi. We planned to use the proceeds of that sale to come here and build copies. Unfortunately, there was a hitch in that plan. You. You were supposed to die at Red Star, Archangel. If you had, Hawke never would have come after me. As I recall, he wasn't on particularly good terms with the committee. I made damn sure of that when he left the program."

It didn't surprise Michael that Moffet had had a hand in Hawke's initial departure from the Airwolf flight crew. He knew Moffet was right. Hawke never would have dealt with Zeus and the others. "I'm sorry I couldn't be more obliging."

Moffet shrugged. "This time, you will be. At any rate, Airwolf slipped through my fingers before I could download the schematics for the turbos. So, Andrew and I set his son on a course that would lead him to control Airwolf. By the time he got there, that idiot Hawke had purged the system. The plans were gone."

"So there's no way to recreate another Airwolf?"

"No, there is one. The AI. The alien component of Airwolf's computer is perfectly capable of duplicating her systems, including the turbos. But for that, one would need the ship itself. Jason tried to set it up, but Hawke's brother installed safeguards, and then he hid her someplace where we couldn't find her. The Fennecs served a dual purpose. The funds that they generated supported the operation, and they lured you here." Moffet rose from his chair.

"And now?" Michael had a fairly good idea what came next.

The trace of a smile crossed Moffet's lips. "And now you pay for what Hawke did to me in Libya. I'll take care of him later."

"You're going to kill me." The agent steeled himself. Whether he wanted to or not, he might have no choice but to take Moffet on.

"Eventually. But not until I have a little fun." To Michael's surprise, Moffet wheeled and strode toward the door.

As Moffet exited, he was replaced by the Norcom guard, who came to stand in front of the curtained wall. His expression could best be described as a smirk, although the effect was somewhat spoiled by the swollen nose and blackening eyes.

Michael knew this might be his best chance, to jump the guard now before Moffet revealed whatever evil he had planned. He sized the man up; they were about the same height, the guard perhaps a few pounds heavier but most assuredly not fat. Tucking the handcuffs into the back of his belt, Michael moaned and abruptly doubled over, coughing and gasping. "Oh God. I think... think I'm having a heart attack," he got out between gasps.

The guard started to step forward. "What..." He got no further as Michael suddenly sprang off the sofa, turning to drive his left shoulder into the man's sternum. It caught the guard totally by surprise, knocking him off his feet. He crashed heavily to the floor, taking Michael with him.

Despite landing on his left side, the impact sent a bolt of pain shooting through his damaged right shoulder. He bit down on his lip to keep from crying out even as he slammed his forearm into the guard's already mangled nose. The guard had no compulsion about making noise; he screamed what might have been a curse in a language Michael didn't recognize.

Growling in defiance, the guard tried to reach for his weapon, but Michael got to it first, jamming the barrel against the man's temple. It was over almost as quickly as it had started, the guard slowly raising his hands in surrender. Grimacing, Michael reached behind his back, nearly numb fingers retrieving the handcuffs. Quickly scanning the room, he spotted a pipe in the corner. Reaching from floor to ceiling, it probably delivered water to the floor above.

Michael handcuffed the guard to the pipe, and slipped the automatic into his belt. Moving to the curtained wall, he pulled one drape a fraction of an inch aside, and looked to see what the curtains concealed.

The windows overlooked the room below, a room that might be laboratory, operating theater, torture chamber or some combination thereof. At its center was a table festooned with restraints, surrounded by various machines. Caitlin was strapped to the table. Stripped down to the tank top and shorts she always wore under her flight suit, she struggled against the bindings, her eyes wide with terror.

A quick look at the windows between them told Michael that they were made of bulletproof glass. Palming the automatic, he turned for the door.

-*-

Usual caution forgotten, Michael jerked the door open, revealing the guard who waited just outside. Not bothering to take conscious aim, the agent pulled the trigger before the other man could take his automatic from its holster. The shot echoed through the hallways as the guard's body crumpled to the ground. Michael reached down and retrieved the man's weapon, tucking it into his waistband at the small of his back.

There were two directions he could go. When Moffet's men had dragged him away from Hawke, he had come from the right. Caitlin was a story below him, and he had no recollection of having passed a stairway. He turned left, jogging down the hallway until he came to the alcove that held the staircase. As he started downwards, he heard shouts and the clatter of booted feet moving somewhere behind him. The gunshot had been heard.

At the bottom of the stairs, there was a set of double doors, held open by simple wooden doorstops. Michael kicked the wedges loose and closed the doors, then retrieved one of the pieces of wood and used it to jam the door handles. It wouldn't hold for long, but might buy him a minute or two.

A quick scan of the hallway revealed a a likely door, and Michael threw it open. It was the right room. "Cait!" She was alone, still struggling against the leather cuffs that held her.

"Michael!" There was both relief and fear in her eyes. "You've got to get out of here. They're going to kill you."

Right hand nearly useless, he was forced to set the automatic down as he worked to release the strap holding her wrist. "Not without you."

She looked up at him. "What happened? You're hurt!"

He shook his head in negation, concentrating on trying to determine exactly how the straps fastened. "I wrenched my shoulder. It will be fine once I get some ice on it."

"Michael, there's no time--" Whatever else she had intended to say died on her lips, as a second door on the side of the room opened. The agent let go of the leather, and started to reach for the weapon.

"Touch it, and I kill her." Moffet stepped into the room, the gun held before him pointed directly at Caitlin's head. He nodded as he saw that Michael had frozen in mid-motion. "Good. Now back away."

Michael did as he was told, stepping back from the table. Moffet advanced and pocketed the automatic. "Raise your hands over your head."

"I can't." It was the truth. He raised his left, but could barely bring his right arm to waist level.

Moffet smiled. On him, it was a distinctly unpleasant expression. "Ah yes. Locke told me about your misadventures, but I'd forgotten. I suppose that's close enough." Never lowering the weapon trained on Caitlin, Moffet crossed to a cabinet, and pulled out the top drawer.

"Let her go." Michael knew there wasn't a chance of it, but he had to try. "You can do whatever you want with me."

If anything, the smile became even more evil. "I'm sorry, Archangel. I'm afraid I have plans for your wife." Moffet reached into the drawer and pulled out a syringe of clear liquid. "Women are such fragile creatures. I've found that inevitably, just as I start to get acquainted..." He shook his head. "I'm not going to allow that to happen with Caitlin. I plan to keep her around for a long, long time."

Michael knew what was in the syringe. The "coolant" from the alien computer. With the nanoprobes living in her bloodstream Moffet could bring Caitlin to the brink of death, again and again. If that was the only option, it was better that she die here and now. "She's nothing to you. Please, leave her out of it." Begging would do no good, but it might serve as a distraction. As he spoke, Michael slowly flexed his right hand, trying to get the feeling back into it.

"Someone has to pay for what you and Hawke did to me, and somehow, I think she's likely to prove a much more enjoyable companion than either of you." Moffet came closer to the table, syringe held before him, weapon still in his other hand.

Caitlin thrashed against the restraints. "Never. I don't care what drugs you give me, I'll let you kill me before I'll ever become your 'companion'."

Moffet laughed, his attention flicking to Michael. "She doesn't understand, does she?" He turned back to her. "In time you will, my dear. And time is one thing that we're going to have plenty of."

He started to reach for her, and Michael knew it was now or never. He twisted his right arm behind his back, forcing his fingers to close around the automatic hidden behind him. Driven by pure desperation, he whipped the weapon around, firing in Moffet's direction.

The bullet hit Moffet in the side, its impact spinning him sufficiently that his own shot went wild, missing Caitlin and lodging in the table. Before Moffet could recover, Michael had transfered the automatic to his left hand, and he fired again, sending Moffet reeling.

Michael remembered Moffet's words. _ The beating of his heart had circulated the nanoprobes through his bloodstream, allowing them to heal him._ The agent rounded the table, firing twice more, both shots into the center of Moffet's chest. Moffet fell backwards, crashing to the floor in a pool of blood.

Wearily, Michael walked over to check the body. Stooping, he felt for a pulse, infinitely relieved when he didn't find one. _Pulse or not, he wasn't taking any chances. _ He placed the muzzle against the center of Moffet's forehead and pulled the trigger repeatedly, the echoing of the shots nearly drowning out the sound of Caitlin's screams.

Dropping the empty weapon, he retrieved both the automatic he had taken from the guard, and the one Moffet had carried and returned to Caitlin's side. Her face was turned from the the sight of Moffet's bloodied corpse and she was sobbing, shaking with emotion. Michael reached to stroke her cheek, but she pulled away from him. "Dear God, Michael. I know..." she shuddered. "I know what he was planning, but was that really necessary?"

"I had to be sure."

Caitlin glanced toward the body and quickly looked away. "Who...?"

_She didn't know it was Moffet. _No wonder she didn't understand. As much as he wanted to explain, Michael knew they still had to get out of there. "An old acquaintance." He began pulling the restraints loose.

As soon as her wrists were free, Caitlin sat up, reaching down to help with the bindings holding her ankles. With those released, she took the second automatic from Michael and started to get down from the table. He moved to help her, and his boots crunched on broken glass. "No, don't!" Realizing the glass had come from the syringe and the tile was wet, he stopped her from touching her bare feet to the floor.

She looked down. "I'll be careful where I step."

"No." Michael wasn't willing to risk it, and didn't dare take the time to look for Caitlin's clothes and boots. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her rather inelegantly over his good shoulder.

"Michael--" she started to protest.

He could hear the racing of her heart and feel her tremble, knew how much it was costing her to hold herself together. "You don't know what that stuff is." He carried her to the doorway, well away from the puddle of fluid, before lowering her to her feet. Assuring himself that she was still carrying the weapon he had given her, Michael flattened himself against the wall. "Crack that door."

To his surprise, the hallway outside was clear. He led Caitlin back to the stairway, silently gesturing for her to remove the piece of wood he had used to secure the doors. Keeping his back pressed to the wall, he edged up the stairs. The guard at the top had his back turned toward them. Michael fired once, and the man crumpled. Knowing the shot would have alerted any other guards posted in the hallways, the agent raced up the remaining stairs, checking to see that both directions were clear before beckoning Caitlin to join him.

"We've got to round up Hawke and then find Airwolf. Watch our six." With Caitlin following, Michael started back toward where he had awoken. He moved cautiously, knowing there had to be more of Moffet's men waiting somewhere. That caution was rewarded as he peered around the last corner. A good fifty feet away, a nervous looking guard stood outside Hawke's room, armed with what appeared to be an M-16 rifle.

The agent pulled back out of sight. He knew that given the range, his odds of hitting the man were slim. Michael had never been a particularly good shot left-handed, and at the moment he doubted his ability to even grasp the weapon with his right hand. As much as he hated to do it, he looked at Caitlin and mouthed the words, "Can you...?"

She peeked around the corner and nodded, then swallowed hard. Raising the automatic, she fired. Michael was moving even as the guard slumped to the floor, jogging toward him and kicking the M-16 away in case he was still alive. A quick check assured Michael that he wasn't. Caitlin joined them, retrieving the M-16 and standing watch while Michael searched the guard. Rummaging his pockets produced two extra magazines for the rifle and a set of keys. Giving Caitlin the ammo, Michael began rifling the keys, looking for one that would open the door. He found one that seemed like it might fit and tried it in the lock. It worked; he opened the door and pulled Caitlin inside.

"Hawke? Come on, Hawke!" The pilot was slumped against the far wall, and only stirred when Michael called his name the second time.

"Yeah." Voice thick, he began to struggle, trying to get to his feet. Caitlin rushed to help him as Michael checked the ring and found what appeared to be a handcuff key. He crossed the room to Hawke and bent down to release the lock, tucking the key ring into his pocket as soon as they were open. With his wrists freed, Hawke climbed none-too-steadily to his feet.

Caitlin kept her arm around him. "Can you walk, String?"

"I'm okay," he answered, starting to wobble towards the door.

Michael pulled the automatic from his pocket and opened the door to check the hallway. For the moment, it appeared clear. Unfortunately he had no idea of exactly where they were, or how to find Airwolf. He turned toward Hawke. "Any suggestions on how to get out of here?"

Hawke gestured to the right. "I _think_ they brought us in from that way."

The pilot sounded less than sure of it, but they had just come from the other direction, and they hadn't passed any obvious exits. "Right it is, then." He started down the hallway with Caitlin following, partially supporting a staggering Hawke.

They soon came to a unique set of heavy double doors on one side of the hall. Curious and hoping to find a way out, Michael eased one of the doors open. The sight that greeted him wasn't entirely unexpected, although it certainly wasn't the exit he had been hoping for. "Wait here," he whispered to the others, slipping into the room.

It was a lab, complete with all the usual scientific equipment one would expect to find in such an environment. Judging from the notes and materials left scattered about, it appeared that whoever worked there had left quickly, probably when Airwolf had first arrived. What had caught Michael's attention though, were the rows of black, brick-like blocks, resting at the bottom of a yard long tank of clear fluid. Blocks considerably larger than the "bricks" that were buried within Airwolf's computer.

Fighting down a sudden, abrupt wave of nausea, Michael shuffled the papers together. Pulling down the zipper of his flight suit, he tucked the notes inside his shirt. A moment later, the agent rejoined Caitlin and Hawke. Some distance down the corridor, they came to an intersection. A quick look down the short crossing passage revealed a door at its end, and the golden glow of late afternoon sunlight. Michael edged down the hall, weapon drawn and ready. The end of the hallway opened into a small foyer, a door flanked by two windows. Crouching low, he flattened himself against the wall and looked outside.

As he had feared, a pair of guards stood only a short distance away, one smoking a cigarette, fortunately both with their backs turned towards the foyer. Beyond them was a courtyard, gravel interspersed with dying grass. At its center waited Airwolf. From where he stood, Michael could see the tail section and the ragged hole where the the Leech had hit them. Either he had succeeded in knocking it loose before he had passed out, or Moffet's men had removed it. There was no other apparent damage.

There were other guards as well, one lazing against the helicopter's nose, at least three more that he could see scattered along the far side of the courtyard. Motioning for her to stay down, he waved Caitlin to his side. As she joined him, he pointed out the guards to her. "One of us has to get to Airwolf," he whispered.

Caitlin nodded. "I'll go. You can cover me." She held out the rifle.

"No." Michael flexed his wrist and elbow, doing his best to keep the grimace off his face. He wasn't sure he could control the helicopter, but he had even more doubts about his ability to hit anything with the M-16, much less change magazines quickly. "I'll go. If I can get in and get her started, I can clean up whatever guards are left. Once I do, get Hawke in the back, and we'll get the hell out of here."

She looked for a moment as if she might put up an argument, but finally nodded. Caitlin leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Be careful."

"You too." Michael checked Hawke's position. The agent was both relieved and concerned to see that Hawke had remained against the wall where Caitlin had left him, well out of the line of fire. It wasn't like Hawke to acquiesce to staying out of a fight. That he had said much about just how disoriented the pilot really was.

Caitlin took a position low and to the side of the door. She held the rifle to her shoulder, a second magazine of ammo in her hand. Michael pocketed his automatic and took a grip on the door handle. "Ready?"

Adjusting her grip on the M-16, Caitlin nodded. "Yeah. Ready as I'll ever be."

Michael pulled the door open, and Caitlin fired, spraying the two guards nearest it. They both went down before they had any chance to react. The man leaning against Airwolf got a bit further; he had started to turn when he was hit. He slipped to the ground, leaving a trail of blood smeared down the helicopter's nose.

Caitlin turned the rifle on other targets. Holding his arm tightly against his side, Michael sprinted toward Airwolf, ducking and dodging as he ran. Reaching it, he pulled open the cockpit hatch and dove behind it, hearing bullets clatter off the armor. Pulling himself into the pilot's seat, he reached across and slammed the hatch. His hand went to the engine start buttons. "Come on, Lady." As he forced the fingers of his right hand to wrap around the stick, he willed the rotors to crank faster.

Outside, Caitlin was backed against the outside wall, Hawke crouched beside her. She had picked off at least two more guards, but others were advancing toward her position. Michael eased the power on and slowly lifted off, wavering a bit as he ascended. _Not one of his smoother takeoffs._ He turned the helicopter, bringing one of the guards in line with the chain guns. A quick burst threw the man into the air. Michael searched for another target.

There were a pair of men advancing on Caitlin's position, and he saw that she had discarded the rifle. _Out of ammo_. She dispatched one of the guards with the automatic, and Michael took the second out with Airwolf's guns. He kept Airwolf in motion, grateful that he was only taking on lightly armed men and not more substantial opposition.

He lost track of how many guards he had killed. Eventually, he could find no more opposition, and Michael brought the helicopter to a careful landing as close to Caitlin's position as he dared. She opened the hatch and helped Hawke into the back, then moved into the co-pilot's position. Michael saw that she had retrieved a pair of sneakers from the back, and she bent to slid her feet into them as he lifted off.

Once she had her shoes on, she reached for a helmet. "I can take her," she offered.

Michael shook his head. "Transfer weapons to the pilot's position."

Caitlin turned toward him, confusion flashing in her eyes. "You want missiles?" The hesitation in her voice questioned what he intended to do with them.

"Yeah." He could have done it himself, but reaching for the inconveniently mounted switches would only aggravate his shoulder.

"Okay. You've got them."

Michael hovered above the Norcom complex, calculating the spots where the Hellfires would do the most damage. He estimated the position of the lab they had stumbled across, and swung Airwolf in that direction. Sighting his target, he pulled the trigger.

The kick of the missile's launch transfered itself through the ship and up the control stick, jarring his arm. Michael bit his lip, ignoring both the surge of pain and the explosion behind him as he turned the helicopter to fire another Hellfire into the building.

Caitlin had looked away from the destruction. "Do you really need to...?" she asked quietly.

"If I could, I'd take the place out with a Shrike." They weren't carrying the nuclear tipped missiles. For the sake of international diplomacy, it was probably just as well that they weren't.

Systematically, he launched their stock of Hellfires into the Norcom facility. By the time he had run out of missiles, the entire complex was in ruin and burning. _It would have to be enough_. The adrenalin that had been keeping him moving finally petered out. Exhausted, he sagged into the seat. "Cait? Can you take her?"

"My aircraft," she answered. Michael felt Caitlin take over the controls even as she said the words, and gratefully let his hands slip away. "The clearing where we spent last night?"

"Anywhere." Before they could go far, they would have to rig a temporary patch for Airwolf's wounded tail. Until they did, they would be unable to pressurize the aircraft. Beyond that, they all needed rest, food and first aid.

"In that case, one deserted clearing, coming up."

-*-

It was dusk by the time Caitlin landed. "I'll help you with the camo netting," Michael told her, easing himself out of the pilot's seat.

"No you won't. I can get it. You just see how Hawke is doing." Caitlin already had the net, and was starting to hang it over the rotor.

Michael checked the monitors. According to the sensors in his helmet and uniform, Hawke was merely sleeping, not unconscious. At the moment, that was probably the best thing for him. Michael pulled the zipper of his flight suit down part way and retrieved the notes he had taken from Moffet's lab, stashing them in one of Airwolf's storage compartments to examine later. As his wife finished with the netting, Michael opened another compartment and found the first aid kit. Grabbing a pair of chemical cold packs from it, he activated them and stuffed them into his suit to ice down his shoulder.

"Is that helping at all?" Caitlin brought the sleeping bags and pillows out of the helicopter and started arranging them just outside the hatch, where they would be close enough to hear Hawke if he needed them.

His shoulder still throbbed. He knew it was pointless to lie to her. "A little."

"You want something to eat?" Caitlin had pulled out the cooler and was looking inside.

"Not now, thanks." He was more tired than hungry. He lowered himself carefully onto the ground, and wedged a pillow behind him to lean back against.

Caitlin grabbed a bottle of water from their supplies and opened it before passing it to him. He tore a package of ibuprofen with his teeth, and used the liquid to wash the pills down. "How did you...?" she asked.

"I wasn't moving fast enough to suit one of the guards. He jerked my arm behind my back." He looked over toward Airwolf. There were carbon fiber patches and sealant stowed inside the aircraft, but repairs to the tail would have to wait until morning. The sky was rapidly growing dark.

It was still light enough to see her sympathetic wince. "There's a sling in the first aid kit, should I get it?"

Michael shook his head. "If I baby it too much, by tomorrow I won't be able to move." Swelling in his shoulder pressed on the already damaged nerves. He flexed his fingers experimentally. "My hand wants to go numb."

Caitlin sat down cross legged on the sleeping bag beside him, and began gently massaging his hand, slowly working her way upwards. The soft touch of her hands felt good -- at least, as good as anything was going to feel until the pain in his shoulder eased. He dreaded what morning would bring. Caitlin couldn't fly all the way back to the States alone, and Hawke certainly wasn't going to be able to help. For once, he wasn't looking forward to flying.

There was something else he wasn't looking forward to, the question he knew he had to ask. "Cait, did he... did he hurt you?"

"No." Her voice was so low he could scarcely hear it. "I got a good whiff of that gas before I could get my visor shut. It knocked me out. When I came to, a couple of those thugs had me tied up in another room. That guy... " she hesitated, and Michael reached for her hand, wrapping it in his. "Your _acquaintance_ came in. He said something to them; I think it was in Spanish, but I couldn't really hear, and I was still sort of fuzzy. Anyhow, they dragged me into that other room and made me take my flight suit off, then tied me down to that table. The leader came in, he just stood there and stared at me with this weird expression on his face. Finally he said that he was going to make you watch what he did to me, and then he was going to kill you." Michael felt her shudder.

"I'm sorry." He wasn't going to tell her who her captor actually was. She was scared enough already. Cait didn't need to know that it was Moffet who had terrorized her, or what he might have done to her.

She shook her head. "Don't apologize. You got me out of that horrible place." Caitlin paused for a moment. "What was that, anyhow? Some kind of torture chamber?"

Michael had been doing his best to avoid thinking about that room, about seeing Caitlin tied out there like meat left to dry. Now, he considered it. Moffet might have used it to abuse women; the political and economic realities of Bolivia suggested that there would be many women who wouldn't be missed, and if they were, that few would care. However, the more Michael thought about it, the more he realized that much of the equipment in the room had a certain scientific feel to it. _Was Moffet experimenting? If so, with what, and on whom?_ Perhaps the notes he had found would tell him something. "I don't know, Cait," he admitted. "And I'm not sure I want to."

-*-

Michael eased out of bed, careful not to wake Caitlin. She was at least as tired as he was, and had fallen asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. The trip back from Bolivia had been more than fifteen hours of flying and at least another hour spent on refueling stops. By the time they had dropped Hawke off at the Firm's medical facility and Airwolf at Red Star, it had been nearly three in the morning before they actually got home.

He pulled on a robe and padded to the door on bare feet, pausing to look back at his sleeping wife. The visions of what Moffet would have done with her had at least as much to do with his insomnia as the pain radiating down his arm. The more he tried not to think about Caitlin strapped to that table, the sharper the image became.

Knowing that sleep wasn't going to come, he headed for the kitchen. Caitlin left a night-light on in the hallway so no one would trip; Michael used its dim illumination to retrieve ice from the freezer. A handful of cubes went into a glass, the rest into a plastic bag. He took both into the den and turned on a lamp.

The room was comfortably warm, but that warmth did little to ease the chill that ran down Michael's spine. He set the glass and the bag on his desk, and filled the tumbler with bourbon. Crossing to the fireplace, he started a fire burning before returning to his desk.

The top drawer held the papers he had removed from Moffet's lab. With the bag of ice packed around his shoulder, he leaned back, propped his legs on the corner of the desk and began reading.

Dawn was brightening the sky by the time Michael was finished. He read Spanish better than he spoke it, but part way through, he had been forced to get up and find a Spanish to English dictionary. Even with the dictionary, some of the scientific terms he still didn't understand; his education had been in the field of engineering, not biochemistry.

Michael tried to put it all together, what he could glean from the notes, and what Moffet had told him. The alien "blood" that ran through Airwolf's veins was capable of conveying virtual immortality to anyone willing to introduce it into their own bloodstream. As long as the nanoprobes circulated through the body, the individual would no longer age, and even mortal injuries would eventually heal -- up to and including the removal of vital organs. Moffet had, apparently, learned that via a series of experiments on unwilling "volunteers." Michael's mind returned to that table. He no longer had to guess at what it had been used for.

It went beyond immortality. In ways that even Moffet didn't completely comprehend, the nanoprobes changed the human brain. After he had been infected by them, Moffet somehow understood how to integrate them into human technology and use them to improve those systems. He also learned how the nanoprobes reproduced.

Michael had wondered how Moffet had gotten the alien technology out of the presumably secure labs at White Sands and into Airwolf's computers nearly a decade later. The notes had revealed that Moffet had drained a quantity of his own blood and allowed it to dry. As it had, the clear liquid of the nanoprobes had separated itself from the human cells.

The nanoprobes required very little sustenance, satisfied by just the microorganisms that exist in ordinary air. Allowed the space and given an attractive growing medium, they freely replicated, doubling in volume in less than a week.

Hawke's black bricks -- cubes, as Moffet referred to them -- were actually a form of the same material. When something like a circuit board was introduced into a tank of the liquid, a cube formed around it, incorporating and merging the two into one. An interface, of sorts, it allowed Moffet to blend alien and human technology.

Rising stiffly from his chair, Michael tossed the bag of melted ice into the trash and poured a second glass of bourbon. He perched on the corner of the desk, staring unseeing at the flames that danced in the fireplace.

The nanoprobes were the answer to curing cancer, heart disease... so many other illnesses. They could heal nearly any injury, even preexisting ones. For a moment, he considered that. Michael had never had any great fear of death; if he had, he would have found a safer occupation. Immortality wasn't a particularly powerful lure. However, for more than ten years since that fateful morning at Red Star, he had lived with some degree of pain. Cambodia and the other assorted assaults he had survived had only added to that. Some days were better, some worse, but there hadn't been one single day that he could honestly say that nothing hurt. There was also the nagging fear that the latest injury might have caused yet more permanent damage to his shoulder. Damage that he knew the nanoprobes could totally repair, giving him back full use of his arm. _That_ might be worth giving up a bit of humanity.

What if he took Moffet's research back to the Firm? What if it were made available to the public? Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine a world where immortality was achievable.

The nanoprobes reproduced quickly, but would it be quickly enough? There would be riots between those clamoring to receive the serum, the haves and the have nots. And what if there _was_ enough for everyone? If virtually no one died, how many years would it take for the population to double, triple? How many people could the planet support?

Opening his eyes, Michael flipped through the papers, searching for the notes on one of Moffet's experiments. He found what he was looking for, and read it over again. The nanoprobes ultimately wouldn't prevent the starvation of their host. It just took a very, very long time.

Michael sighed. Over the course of human history, how many wars had been fought over food or land? How many _would_ be fought, if the population were to increase exponentially?

When he had first learned that the Roswell crash was real, he had speculated that the ship might be a test, sent to see if humanity could unlock its secrets. Now, a part of him wondered if it was actually a trap, meant to snare a civilization unprepared to deal with the "miracles" it offered.

Sliding off the edge of the desk, Michael downed the last of the bourbon and picked up Moffet's notes. He crossed to the fireplace and crouched before it. Some things were simply too tempting, their possibilities too dangerous. One by one, he fed the papers to the flames.

-*-

A day later, Michael still had managed only a few hours sleep when he dropped wearily into the dark leather chair, flinching as the movement transmitted itself to his shoulder. Across the desk, Zeus looked up from the papers he was studying, cocking an eyebrow. "You look like hell."

Momentarily, Michael considered responding with a wisecrack. _No._ He had, finally, achieved a decent working relationship with the director -- and the look the man was giving him held a certain amount of sympathy. "That about matches the way I feel."

Zeus hesitated, perhaps surprised by his honesty. "How's Hawke?"

"Nasty concussion, three broken ribs, bruised kidneys. Cait's at the hospital with him. I'm meeting her after we're done here."

"He's going to be out of action for awhile. I suppose the Firm will manage to get along without Airwolf for a few weeks."

"Cait's fine, and I can fly if you need me." Not that he really wanted to. Caitlin had flown most of the way back from Bolivia; the few sectors he'd spent at the controls had been agony.

The director shook his head. "Short of world war three, Airwolf is grounded for two weeks. You need the break, and helicopter needs repair, anyhow. Whatever you need for supplies, let me know and I'll authorize it."

Michael nodded. He knew the director was working up to something, and he was too tired to wait for Zeus to come to the point. "You didn't call me in to inquire about Hawke's health."

His directness brought another raised eyebrow. Zeus picked up the papers he had been studying when Michael first walked in, tossing them onto the desk in front of the agent. "I've been reading your report. It's got more holes than a wheel of swiss cheese." He raised a hand, forestalling Michael's protest. "Not that I don't understand why. Off the record, perhaps you'd care to tell me what really went on in Bolivia?"

"Moffet."

The director looked up sharply. "So Hawke was wrong, he did survive?"

Michael considered his response carefully. "Hawke doesn't know it, and I would just as soon keep it that way." Hawke believed he had gotten his revenge on the man who killed Gabrielle. There was no reason to tell him otherwise.

Zeus paused. "Agreed. How did Moffet...?"

"The first explosion threw him behind cover. Beyond that, he was protected by technology he got off the Roswell saucer." _To hell with it._ _ Let Zeus think he meant some kind of shielding._

Pushing back his chair, the director stood. He walked to the window, his back turned to Michael. "According to military officials, what crashed in New Mexico was a weather balloon. You know that I can't confirm anything else."

"You don't have to."

Zeus sighed, leaning heavily against the window frame as he gazed out the glass. "What was he planning?"

The agent chose his words. "Ten years ago, Moffet was in league with Andrew Locke. He took Airwolf so he could copy Jenkins's designs, with the intention of using the proceeds from selling her to build a fleet. When Hawke recovered her before he could get the plans, Moffet started Jason Locke on a path that he thought would eventually regain the helicopter. In the meantime, he built the Fennecs with all of Airwolf's capabilities except the turbos." All perfectly true, as far as it went.

Zeus turned, meeting Michael's eyes. "Is Moffet dead?"

"I made damn sure of it."

"Locke?"

Michael scowled. "I don't know. Hawke shot him down. The next morning as we were leaving Bolivia, we flew over the crash site. The Fennec had burned at some point, but -- I don't know. He might have survived the landing."

Zeus snorted. "God, I'm getting tired of people coming back from the dead." He stared hard at Michael, as if guessing that there was more that the agent wasn't telling him. For a moment, he looked as if he might ask, but instead, he gave his head a minute shake. The director sat back down at his desk. "Didn't you say you were supposed to be meeting your wife?"

"I did. If we're finished here, I suppose I'd better be going." Michael rose stiffly from his chair and crossed to the door.

"Michael?" Zeus stopped him.

"Yes?"

"Go to the doctor. If you won't see one of ours, then at least call Marella."

The agent felt his own eyebrow rise. "Is that an order?"

"Do I need to make it one? I don't know how long Hawke will be out of commission. If Locke _is_ alive..." Zeus let the rest go unsaid.

Grudgingly, Michael nodded. He knew what the director didn't -- if Locke was alive, his blood was full of nanoprobes. It would undoubtedly take him time to regroup, but... _It might not be over._ "Point taken. I'll talk to Marella."

-*-

Hawke's superior hearing picked up the footsteps as they echoed against the tile floor of the hallway, recognizing the slightly uneven gait. Moments later, Michael appeared at the doorway. "Feel up to a visitor?"

"Get your ass in here."

Michael chuckled, entering the room. "How are you doing?"

"Damn headache won't let up. Other than that, not bad." This wasn't his first concussion, but it was the first time for such a miserable, stubborn headache. At least the ribs only hurt when he moved.

The agent returned to the doorway and switched off the overhead light. It left the room dim, lit only by the sun that filtered through curtained windows. "Better?"

It _was_ better. "Yeah, thanks."

Michael lowered himself into one of the bedside chairs. "Avoid loud noises, don't watch television, and whatever you do, stay off the computer."

Hawke snorted. "Been studying Marella's medical books?"

Leaning back, Michael stretched his legs. "Voice of experience. Fractured skull."

_That_ was something Hawke didn't know about. "Red Star?"

"Yeah. I found out the hard way about staying off the computer."

"How long does it take to get the guy with the jackhammer out of your head?"

"Took me nearly a month, but in your case, I doubt it it will be more than a week or two." Michael glanced around the room. "I thought I'd find Cait here?"

"Downstairs. She went down to the cafeteria with Marella to get coffee and bring me back some decent food." The Firm's medical facility might not be a public hospital, but the food wasn't any better.

The agent's double-take was subtle. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed. "Marella?"

"She stopped in," the pilot answered. He could see the unasked questions written across Michael's face, but wasn't ready to answer them. His "relationship" with her, if that's what it was, was still too new to be readily defined. Several days after Michael and Caitlin's dinner party, he had called Marella to ask her some further questions about the supplies that Norcom had ordered. Somehow, it had turned into an hour long conversation, and that had turned into dinner a few nights later.

Thoughts of Norcom Industries brought his mind back to the present. "Sorry I wasn't more use to you in Bolivia."

Michael grinned. "Well, you did manage to soften up at least one of the guards."

"Yeah. Unfortunately, with my head. So what did I miss?"

The agent shook his head. "Nothing important."

Hawke suspected that that couldn't be further from the truth, but there would be plenty of time to discuss it later, somewhere private, outside of the Firm's facility. "How's your arm?"

Michael's expression turned to a scowl. "I was planning to give Marella a call this afternoon and ask if I could stop in to see her."

Hawke considered ribbing Michael about seeing a pediatrician, but decided against it. The agent liked doctors almost as much as he did, and if he was willing to consult one -- even if it was Marella -- then it had to be pretty serious. Hawke was about to commiserate when he heard female voices approaching.

Caitlin followed Marella in, nodding a greeting to her husband before bringing a paper bag to Hawke's bedside. She opened the bag and brought out a sandwich. "I'm afraid tuna on wheat was the best I could do," she apologized.

"Got to be better than what they serve around here." Over the years, Hawke had somewhat relaxed what Dom had referred to as his "seafood and salad" diet, but he still didn't eat red meat -- much less the cardboard the hospital claimed was hamburger.

He bit into the tuna. It was a little dry, but edible. "Not bad. Thanks." Hawke turned his attention from Caitlin back to Michael. "I didn't tell you. They're letting me out of here tomorrow." It was technically accurate, although he didn't mention how long he had spent cajoling the doctors before they had agreed.

"Going to come stay at the house for awhile?" It was phrased as a question, but from Michael's tone it was obvious that the agent considered it a foregone conclusion.

"Thank you, but no." Hawke was fairly certain that he managed to keep the grin off his face.

"String, you can't go back to the cabin. Fresh air and peace and quiet are great, but you shouldn't be alone." Caitlin looked to her husband for support.

Before Michael could agree, Hawke cut him off. "Who said anything about the cabin? I've already accepted another offer."

Marella smiled. "I've asked him to stay with me. After all, I am a doctor. Who better to keep an eye on him?" Something in her expression told Hawke that Marella wasn't above rattling her former boss's cage.

This time Michael didn't do nearly as good a job of hiding his surprise. Granted, he recovered quickly. "Well, if you change your mind, the offer is open, just let us know."

Hawke silently hoped that things would work out with Marella, and he wouldn't have to take Michael up on that invitation. "Didn't you say that you were going to call Marella?" Hawke could see the caution with which the agent moved, and noted how he kept his arm held tight against his side.

Marella had undoubtedly noticed it, too, and it was likely that Caitlin had told her about the injury. The doctor stood. "I don't exactly have privileges here, but I do still have a few friends. Why don't we go downstairs and see if I can get Jimmy to do a couple x-rays? It will save you a trip to the hospital."

The look Michael gave Hawke said that he didn't appreciate the pilot's intervention on his behalf. "I just pulled something. I don't think I really need x-rays."

"No," Marella agreed. "What you need is an MRI, but..."

"Yeah, I know. I've got enough hardware and shrapnel in me that I'd glue to the roof of the machine." Judging from the agent's quick answer, Hawke assumed it wasn't the first time the topic had ever come up.

Caitlin frowned at him. "Michael, you've been in pain for three days. Go."

"Listen to the lady," Hawke encouraged. If he had to put up with being poked and prodded by the medical community, Michael could do the same.

"Okay, okay. I know when I'm out numbered." Michael got to his feet.

Marella joined him. "Let's make this easy. I need to head back to my office anyhow, so once we get the x-rays, you can ride over with me. Cait can meet you there... say an hour or so?"

There was a general agreement, and Michael and Marella both said their goodbyes, with Marella promising to be there to pick Hawke up the next morning. Once they had left, Caitlin turned her attention back to the pilot, the corner of her mouth twisting upwards as her eyes danced with amusement. "So, you're staying with Marella."

"Purely a matter of practicality," Hawke assured her, although he wasn't so sure of that himself. He hadn't really expected the invitation from Marella, and he still didn't quite know what to make of it.

Before Caitlin could prod deeper, he changed the topic. If she was going to question his relationship with Marella, then he was was going to do a bit of prying of his own. "So what's up with you and Michael?"

"Nothing, why?" Her answer came just a bit too quickly.

Hawke wasn't sure how to put it into words. It wasn't anything concrete, just a vague feeling of tension that had radiated from her as she had entered the room and encountered her husband. "Something's eating you. Something that happened in Bolivia?"

Caitlin shook her head in negation. "It's stupid."

Instead of arguing or trying to draw her out, Hawke simply waited. Eventually his patience was rewarded. "There's a side to Michael that I'm not entirely comfortable with," Caitlin explained. "A dark side. I saw it seven years ago in Cambodia. I saw it again in Bolivia."

So that was it. _It was an ugly business they were in._ "Cait, I was down for the count, we didn't even know where you were. Michael did what he had to do to get us all out of that place."

Her chin dropped as she looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. "The leader, the one who seemed to be in charge. Michael shot him. He was dead. Michael... Michael put a gun to the man's head and blew his brains out."

Hawke inhaled sharply, wincing as the motion aggravated his broken ribs. It seemed out of character. The agent wasn't one for making a meaningless statement, or for wasting ammunition. _Why would __Michael have continued firing?_ Hawke's memory of their escape was foggy, but concentration brought an image of Caitlin, barefoot and wearing shorts and tank top. _Dear God._ "Cait, did anyone... did anyone hurt you?" Hawke wasn't sure how to ask, was even less certain he wanted to know the answer.

"No," she answered quietly, "Michael got there in time."

He reached over to take her hand. "I would have blown his brains out, too."

-*-

Caitlin set the magazine down as her husband came out of the exam room. She watched with amusement as he raided the basket of lollipops on the end of the counter, shoving a couple into his jacket pocket and unwrapping another. Michael had a sweet tooth, one he seldom indulged. "Cherry?" she asked, as she moved to join him.

He popped the candy into his mouth, and answered her around it. "Strawberry."

Marella followed him into the waiting area. Clucking her tongue, she reached into his pocket and removed the extra candies. "One to a customer. And don't complain when your tongue turns red."

"Spoilsport," he grumbled, mustache twitching. "I don't know, seems like you should get a spare if you get an injection."

Groaning, Marella rolled her eyes skyward. "I have five year olds that whine less." She held up the two lollipops she had taken from him. "Okay, what will it be, orange or grape?"

"Well," Michael hesitated, grinning, "It was a very long needle..."

"Here!" Rolling her eyes, Marella shoved both into his hand in mock exasperation. "I'll add them to your bill."

As Michael re-pocketed the candy, Caitlin watched the exchange with relief. The light-hearted banter between the two old friends assured her that there was nothing seriously wrong. "So, you managed to patch him back up again?" she asked Marella.

"Good as new," Michael answered, before his doctor could.

"I wouldn't go that far," Marella cautioned. She turned her attention back to him. "You do remember what I told you, right?"

Somewhat sobered, he nodded. "Yeah. Just because it feels better, doesn't mean it is better."

"Right. That's what I don't like about cortisone. Once the pain goes away, you feel like Superman and show off and do more damage. You've got a bad strain, Michael. It's not going to get better over night. Take it easy, do some very light exercise and just let it heal. Cait..."

"I'll keep an eye on him."

Marella snorted. "Good luck with that."

Michael made a show of reaching for his wallet. "So what do I owe you, Doc?"

"I'll send you a bill. Now get out of here, I've got paperwork to get done and a candy basket to restock."

He laughed, then turned serious. "Marella, thank you. I mean it. As much as I prefer to avoid dealing with the medical profession entirely, you're damn good with a needle."

"You're welcome. Just remember what I said about taking it easy. If you have any more problems..."

"I'll let you know." He followed Caitlin to the door, and as he stepped through it, he turned back, grinning. "One more thing, Marella. Make sure you take good care of Hawke."

-*-

Caitlin drove as they headed back to the house. She glanced sideways at Michael, who lazed in the passenger seat, still nursing the strawberry lollipop. "So?"

He pulled the stick from his mouth, looked at it as if surprised to find the candy gone. "So?" He tossed the empty stick out the car window.

"Litterbug," she teased. "So what did you find out about Marella and String?"

"I didn't ask. Whatever is going on, it's none of our business." Unable to keep a straight face any longer, he finally broke into a chuckle. "Besides, I assumed that you were grilling Hawke in my absence."

"Are you kidding? This is String we're talking about, remember? I'd be more apt to get something out of one of the presidents on Mount Rushmore." Caitlin sighed. "When we went down to get our coffee, Marella led me to believe she'd just stopped in to see how he was. I nearly fell out of the chair when she said he was going to be staying with her."

"You know, it could be totally innocent," Michael suggested. "Her place is convenient, and she's certainly got the training..."

"Yeah, and I don't know of anyone who's gotten involved with the woman who was supposed to be nursing him back to health." She bit her lip to keep from bursting out in laughter.

Michael did start laughing. "Poor Hawke hasn't got a chance."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

He eyed her. "Him and Marella? I'm still not sure it's a viable match."

Caitlin remembered the talk she had had with Marella the night of the dinner party. The four of them all had their own demons, demons that an outsider could never understand. Despite her reservations about the raw, dark side of Michael she had discovered, the trek into Cambodia and its aftermath had brought them together. Marella and Hawke didn't have that, but they still had shared experiences that were far outside of the norm. It might be enough. "I guess time will tell."

"Stay out of it, Cait," Michael warned. "Let them sort it out on their own."

Looking back, Caitlin knew that Marella had spotted the growing relationship between her and Michael before either of them had recognized it. Marella had seen it, but had let the two of them find each other without interfering. "Okay."

"Okay? That's it? You're agreeing that easily?" Michael's tone and raised eyebrow suggested he was more than a little dubious.

"Well, I'm not going to promise I won't invite them both over to dinner or to use the pool, but that's all. I'm not going to push." Knowing her husband still didn't quite believe her, she changed the topic. "How's your arm?"

He gingerly rolled his shoulder. "Feeling progressively better. It takes time for the cortisone to take full effect. It still hurts, but nothing like it did."

She heard what he wasn't saying. "Not the first time you've had it?"

"A long time ago. The first couple years, I had a lot of problems with my knee." He shrugged. "At least I don't have to walk on my arm."

Not for the first time, she wondered just how much his knee actually bothered him. He claimed that it was little more than an annoyance, but days like today, when he was tired, the usually barely perceptible limp became much more pronounced. _Not that he would stay off of it._ "Just remember..." Caitlin warned. He might not be willing to rest his knee, but if he didn't take care of his shoulder he was going to damage it further.

"I know. I'm not going to push it."

Caitlin pulled the Mercedes into the driveway, and triggered the remote to open the garage door. "Steaks on the grill tonight?" she asked as they headed into the house.

"Sounds good to me," he agreed.

"I'll boil potatoes for a salad. Why don't you go see if there's a ball game on?" Caitlin had never really followed sports, but after Michael had taken her to a couple of Baltimore Orioles games while they lived in Washington, she had become something of a baseball fan.

Michael looked out toward the deck. "I was thinking I might go for a swim."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Marella suggested it. Don't worry, I'm not planning to do laps." He leaned in and kissed her. "Will you come join me once you finish making your salad?"

"Oh, I suppose I could be persuaded."

He went to change while she peeled potatoes. As she waited for them to cook, she stood by the window, watching her husband as he half swam, half floated in the pool.

The strands of silver that had barely touched his hair when they first met had grown more pronounced. Other than that, he showed few signs of age. His stomach was as flat and his muscles as well defined as she remembered from her first real look at him, the morning she had woken to find him shirtless and sweating on the Mekong.

Alone, she allowed herself a smile. If someone had told her then that Michael would become the love of her life, she would have laughed, or worse. Now, as much as his actions in Bolivia sickened her, she couldn't imagine what her life would be without him. Her mind on her husband rather than her cooking, Caitlin turned away from the window just in time to catch the potatoes before they boiled over. Once they were done, she drained the pot and set them in the refrigerator to cool, then went to change into her bathing suit.

Venturing out onto the deck, Caitlin found that Michael had abandoned the pool. Instead, he reclined on one of the heavy teak loungers, eyes closed, basking in the sun. Something, she knew, that he really shouldn't be doing. "Want me to get you a shirt?"

One eye blinked open, peered at her, closed again. "No. The sun feels good."

She had brought a bottle of sunscreen with her; unprotected, her own fair skin reddened too easily in the California sun. She edged onto the lounger beside him, flipping the bottle open. "Lean forward."

Michael opened his eyes then and looked sideways at her, scowling. "Damn mother hen," he grouched, nevertheless doing as she asked.

"Behave, and I'll let you do me when I'm finished," Caitlin promised, smearing the lotion across his back.

As she moved to do his chest, Michael reached for her and hooked a finger into the v-neck of her suit. "No fair. All the parts I really want to do are already covered."

She let him pull her close, his lips meeting hers. For a moment, she considered stripping off the bathing suit; the house was isolated enough that privacy wasn't a concern. She knew, though, what it would lead to, and she knew how exhausted he was. _No, not today._ At the moment, he needed to rest and relax more than he needed her. Reluctantly, she pulled away. "Do my back."

Michael did as she asked, then she took the bottle back and finished applying the sunscreen to them both. Done, she laid down beside him, her cheek resting against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, hearing the steady beat of his heart. His arm wrapped around her, fingertips idly tracing circles against her skin. As wonderful as making love to him could be, she was just as content like this, nestled against him. "I wish this could last forever," she murmured.

Caitlin felt his breath catch. She tipped her head back to look into his eyes. "Michael? What is it?"

He took time before he answered. "Be careful what you wish for."

She had no idea what he meant. "I don't understand."

Michael's voice was so quiet she scarcely heard him. "What if we actually had forever?"

Caitlin felt her brow wrinkle in confusion. "Forever? You mean like immortality?"

"Essentially."

It was a strange question -- and one that her husband expected a serious response to, judging from the way he was looking at her. Searching for an answer to give him, she sat up, swinging her feet to the deck. "I..." Suddenly, words came back to her. _Time is one thing that we're going to have plenty of._ A madman threatening her with a hypodermic syringe. "Oh my God."

She thought she was going to be sick, and she ran to the edge of the deck, leaning against the railing as she sucked in great gasps of air, trying to settle her stomach. A moment later, she felt Michael's arm around her, and she swallowed down the bile in her throat, letting him pull her into the safety of his embrace. "It's okay. It's over. You're safe."

The pieces started to slide together, parts of the puzzle that she had been reluctant to examine too closely. When she had been strapped down to the table, she had been expected to be raped, and had vowed to herself that she wouldn't give the bastard doing it the satisfaction of begging him not to. She suspected now that what he had been planning had been far worse. As impossible as it seemed, only one thing made sense. "That was Moffet?"

"Moffet," he confirmed. Michael's hold on her tightened, almost painfully so. She wasn't going to complain.

"But, I thought Hawke...?"

"He did. The short version... Moffet had alien nanoprobes in his veins. They healed him."

"That syringe? That's what was in it?" She already knew the answer.

"Yeah."

Caitlin shuddered, knowing how close she had come. She had heard enough about Moffet and the women he had killed to know that his plans for her had gone well beyond just rape. She fought down another wave of nausea, understanding why Michael had gone to such lengths to insure that the man was really dead, and that Norcom was leveled.

Silently, she let Michael lead her back to the chaise. She clung to her husband like a drowning man to a lifeline. There was something innately comforting about lying against him, his arm wrapped around her. She tried to concentrate on that, and not on what might have happened.

"We can have it, if you want." Soft words in her ear stirred her our of her thoughts.

"Have what?"

"Forever." His thumb brushed her lips.

She raised her head, and her eyes searched his face. "You destroyed Norcom. You killed Moffet." _That had ended it, hadn't it?_

Michael hesitated. "The nanoprobes, they're contained in a fluid inside Airwolf's computers. A couple drops..."

_Dear God. He really was offering her forever. _"What about you? What do you want?"

"I..." he broke off, shaking his head. "God, I don't know."

Caitlin forced herself to consider it. Immortality seemed like an impossibility, and yet, so had the idea that Airwolf had been built based on alien technology. "The nanoprobes. How do they...?"

"They bond to human blood. As long as they continue to pump through the body, they repair damage and block aging."

Which was why Michael had shot Moffet repeatedly through the heart, and then put the gun to his skull. "What other effects are there? Is that why Moffet...?"

He must have read the question in her eyes. "No. That bastard was a psychopath long before he ever worked at White Sands."

What would it be like to live forever? What if she could spend eternity with Michael? The age difference between them had always frightened her, whenever she had let herself think about it. She had always known there was a good chance that someday, she would end up alone. There were other things to consider, too. Michael had said that they repaired damage. She ran her fingertips lightly over the deep scar on his shoulder. "They could fix this? The rest?"

"That doesn't matter."

_Of course it mattered._ Caitlin tried to imagine what it would be like to have Michael truly healthy. For him to be able to do whatever he wanted without being dogged by pain. They could have an incredible life together, and it could last forever. But forever came with a price. It would mean watching the people around them grow old and die. Friends, family. She wasn't sure about Marella, but she knew Hawke well enough to know he'd never accept the idea of having alien technology flowing through his veins. What would happen when ten or twenty or thirty years had passed, and they alone hadn't aged? At best, it would mean moving, again and again. New lives, new identities. Did she really want that?

"No. As much as I'd like to spend eternity with you, I can't." She knew what she was denying him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He thumbed away a tear that had started down her cheek. "I don't think I'm ready to give up my humanity, either."

She smiled at him, grateful he understood. "There's something about knowing we don't have forever that makes every moment that much more precious."

He pulled her to him, lips finding hers, insistent. As they finally broke for air, he reached behind her, feeling for the catch of her swimsuit. "Then let's not waste any more time."

-*-*-*-*-

Author's note:

I would like to thank my readers for sticking with me this far through a series that has grown into something far more expansive and involved than I had originally intended. I'm going to take a break from writing it for awhile, but I do expect to eventually return to the story. Thanks again!


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